Somewhere Only We Know
by Kris RL
Summary: Summer of 6th year? The wizarding world is at war with itself, and secrets, hidden pasts, biological fathers, staged deaths, broomstick rescues, band T-shirts, funerals, stifled laughter, new truths, and an old rivalry's new best friendship come into play
1. Friends From the Past

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K. and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter One

Friends From the Past

Draco's eyes lifted from the porcelain plate that was resting below his closed mouth, his lowered jaw, and his very distant thoughts. On such a plate, on such a joyous occasion, only the most mouthwatering, personal favorite foods of the nearly seventeen-year-old Malfoy heir were to be eaten, preferably inhaled, being that it was the first time he had been sitting down to dinner with his family since he had returned home from Hogwarts.

Every little inch of his intricately carved plate was piled with these foods, the foods that he craved all year long. With lowering eyes, for the first time since he had been home, he shifted his attention toward the black cloth napkin that was folded in a triangular half upon the lap of his crisp white trousers, searching for some sort of reaction, there, that he could glue to his face, and he had been doing this for years; the news his father had just spoken had rendered him completely speechless, unable to form the appropriate reaction, even in his own brain. It was silent. Silent!

Lucius Malfoy had come in for breakfast. _Late_. Lucius Malfoy was rarely _ever _late... anywhere—to any event, to any meal, to any tiny appointment—and if anyone ever showed up for breakfast, particularly Draco, three seconds lingering, once he had taken his seat, he would be looked down upon for the rest of breakfast and would have to deal with a short, prompt meeting from the cold eyes of the abruptly impatient man who sat at the very end of the long, polished, shining, spotless wooden table that adorned the dining parlor of the Malfoy Manor.

After jumping off of his proverbial high-horse, without even glancing at Draco, who had been patiently waiting for his father's arrival since about five minutes prior, the man held up the latest edition of the Daily Prophet and then tossed it down onto the table with an emphatic slap. The news must have been unprecedentedly huge, because the expression upon Lucius's face was that of pure delight, as were the faces of the unannounced, uninvited guests who strolled into the grand room behind him.

Narcissa Malfoy, who sat on the left side of the table, in the center, between the two ends where her husband and son faced each other, was the first to question the strange expression on the usually tame and controlled face, "Hmm, this better be good, Lucius. You're late, a crime you so often like to spit at. What is it that has you looking like an actual human being, with actual human emotions, this morning?"

Draco's eyes latched onto his mother, and they hadn't done so, so pointedly, either, since he had arrived home. Though he was quite aware that his parents had been spending less and less time together, over the last few months, he had never directly heard his mother address his father in such a way--never, in fact, had he heard her take such a shrill voice with his father. His question was the same as his mother's, though he hadn't dared to call his father on it, much less in front of visitors, and had let it pass.

It was a rarity for Draco to call his father out on any flaw or mishap—a stumble of words, improper use of a word, a wrongly pronounced herb, etc.—because when he did so, he eventually regretted it. He had learned his lesson, as well as his place.

"Even you couldn't ruin this morning for me, Narcissa," Lucius responded coolly, though Draco could somehow tell he had been startled and surprised that his mother had spoken to him as she had, especially in front of his gentlemen friends, who had all quieted down after she had spoken those words; she had made her displeasure quite apparent. Instead of giving her the satisfaction, however, Lucius just picked up the paper, again, and turned it around to face the similarly colored mother and son, neither of which cared to see him at the moment. "Judging by your expressions, however, I can see that you haven't heard the news."

"Is that what you call murder, now, Lucius? _News_. It's not news."

"Uh—I—uh, _mother_," Draco immediately scolded her, dutifully, though inwardly he was impressed with her. Regardless of how his parents treated each other right in front of him, they had never discussed "it" _with_ him. He was supposed to believe that they were perfectly happy, and while he was supposed to believe that, everything else pointed him in the opposite direction. It was unheard of, in their circle of society, for a woman of his mother's ranking and privilege to publicly insult or challenge her husband, especially in front of guests. But, though her speaking up was a slight shock, her words were not. She had spoken to Draco, in the last few weeks of his school term, about his father, in her weekly letters. She was fed up, and Draco could empathize with that, and so he continued more softly. "Mother, please? This is hardly the place, hardly the time. We have _guests_."

Narcissa picked up her fork, "Yes, Draco, I can see that. I'm famished, and I think we should eat. Lucius, are you going to join us or will you be eating when we finish, like you make Draco do when he's late for breakfast?"

Draco looked back at his father un-apologetically. His mother did have a point there. They had been waiting for him to join them, and now he came waltzing in with an army of colleagues and associates behind him. He seemed to have absolutely no intention of sitting down to enjoy an awkwardly cold, delightfully-sarcastic breakfast, though, which would, no doubt, consist mostly of silence or snide remarks between his two guardians. He'd rather just sit there with his mother and enjoy light, genuine conversation.

Annoyed with all of the hesitation in the room, Draco finally spoke up, "Father, if you have news, get it over with."

It had been at that very moment when his eyes had taken in the Daily Prophet, which was still held up.

Narcissa did not make a sound, but Draco heard the clattering of a fork onto a plate. Still, she did not make a sound to the news on the front page of the Daily Prophet. It was obviously a Special Edition, maybe one of the _most_ special editions to have ever been published. The heartbeat that had been so vibrantly beating inside of Draco's chest, the familiar happy humming of the uncomfortable atmosphere of morning in the Malfoy Mansion, started to slowly drip away. If his mother had begun to talk, there was no way he could have heard, because all that he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ear drums and the words that he was mentally reading over on the front of the paper. They were not cohesive, more like oxy-morons, anyway, and therefore hard to comprehend, simple as they were.

No words had been spoken, Draco realized, those couple of minutes later, as he looked up from his full plate, which, on its own, suddenly seemed to be completely empty. His hunger had subsided. No words had been spoken, he corrected himself, by his own voice, nor his mother's. His father was waiting for a reaction, clearly, but seemed suddenly furious that the reaction was silence. Such news didn't take Draco a second to contemplate. His throat swelled up, and he clutched it with his right hand, unaware that his brain had moved it there. Even his blood seemed to be shaking, maybe his cells were rapidly vibrating off each other, and he felt cold, very cold, as he met the ice-fire silver eyes that were expectantly waiting.

Lucius Malfoy lowered the paper, face down, onto the table top, still greeted with silence, and when he spoke, it was with hesitation and worry rather than the annoyance he had been showing only moments before, "Draco?"

Draco pulled the cloth napkin up from his lap with his slim right fingertips. His left hand pushed his plate forward and away, causing it to collide with his tea cup, his water cup, and then his juice cup, followed by his fork flying off of his plate and hitting against a salt shaker, which, all-in-all, resulted in a very impromptu, yet fitting, miniature melody that filled the grand room all of the way up to the domed ceiling. The grace that had seen the dining room of the Malfoy estate, he knew, had probably just been lowered a couple of pegs. He dropped his napkin down on the table top, folded his hands together, with his elbows sitting on the top of the table, placed his lips to his intertwined hands, and closed his eyes. His own reaction was opposite of how he had always pictured it to be, and he could do nothing to stop it. His hands had moved, his rational hearing had stopped, and his heart had never pounded so loudly.

Narcissa rose from the table, after dropping her cloth napkin down, as well, beside her plate.

Draco's newly-opened silver eyes watched his mother excuse herself, silently.

"I must have walked into the wrong house," Lucius commented, loudly, to his friends, who were silent, too.

Walked into the wrong house? It was a good guess, Draco thought. _He wished_.

Before Draco knew what was happening, chairs were being summoned for his father's friends to all sit around the breakfast table. This, too, was something that had never been done. There had never been more than six people in their large private Dining Hall at one given time. Perhaps the time had passed more quickly than he had realized, watching all of this unfold before him.

This Lucius Malfoy, who had walked in, so proudly, with his shoulders held so straight, squared off, had been wearing a rare smile, a real smile. A _smile_ with teeth, and why?

It was a few seconds later that Draco was captured by unmoving, narrowed, scarily suspicious eyes, "Draco," spoke the voice from the man who he knew to be his father. The voice sounded slightly different than it had ever sounded before, somewhat angry but somewhat unsure of that anger.

The excited talk in the room immediately faltered into hushed silence, once more, and Draco realized that their eyes had all settled upon him. He could not blink. He still could not move. He still could not understand the writing on the Daily Prophet, trying to somehow wake himself up, and having commented to himself at how lame it was that he was attempting to do so, but he hadn't wanted this to be real. Could it be real? It was likely real. Yes, it was likely real.

"I thought you'd like to be the first one I told." He paused. "Honestly, Draco, I expected quite a different reaction from you. I seem to remember you joking about seeing this day coming, with some glee, and now it's here and you don't have a word to say?"

Draco's eyes dropped back down onto his still emptily-full plate once he heard someone comment about how he might have been mentally celebrating, too overjoyed to be leaping out of his seat and, oh, pumping his fists in the air? A different reaction indeed, ha. Yes, this was different, as he could feel the very depth of his physical heart beginning to ail him. His eyes shot back, angrily, narrowed, to his father, when he opened his eyes. He needed to get away.

"Yes, good morning to you, too, father. You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen," he finally croaked out, in a voice that rasped and grumbled lowly, as if fighting for each syllable, finally giving acknowledgment to the guests whom he knew to be his father's acquaintances, ones damn well not good enough to have the honor of being in the private breakfast room.

He was standing, before he knew it, still holding his napkin. He pushed his chair back, stepped out from behind the table, and began to walk toward the doors that his father had burst in through, unaware that he was squeezing the life out of his napkin, twisting it with both hands and taking awkward, heavy steps.

Every sound at the table had faded, this time, completely.

Lucius stepped in front of his son, in front of the door, blocking his path to get to the doors.

Draco stopped, but he held his head high, "I think it'd be nice if you would step aside."

"I thought you would be thrilled, Draco! I know my sons are."

Draco didn't turn his attention toward the familiar voice at the table who had just spoken. Rather, he stared his father right on, eye-to-eye, being as they stood at the same height. With a leaner frame, Draco seemed smaller, but he wasn't. While his father was wearing one of his custom tailored cloaks, and notably similar couture robes underneath, to bulk up his appearance, all Draco wore, in contrast, was a pair of fine, tailored white trousers, that had a nice flow to them, and a buttery-mellow color vintage band T-shirt that he had picked up in Diagon Alley a few months prior. He was slim, lean, and was hardly dressed for company.

Lucius looked down, almost suddenly, "What have I told you about muggle clothing, Draco?"

Draco stepped forward, "That it's just as important as wizard clothing, or else I'd walk around naked, which is a horrible sight, because I'm awfully pale with this fine, _aristocratic _skin that _you've _given me, right? But I'd rather walk around naked than walk around without a soul to speak of, only smiling when my life's work, of seeing my "Master's" enemy dead, is complete," he returned without hesitation, without fear, defiant of his father's expectations, like Draco should have been jumping for joy at the news. He was damn sure he would be hearing about the news, anyway, for the next three years, every single day, and then, subsequently, every other day until he died. He was only just beginning to understand what this news was, because he had heard himself say it aloud. "That's some life you lead. Like I said, please excuse me while I go pretend not to realize that you're smiling, for the first time in months, over the murder of, God forbid, The-Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter. Great, I didn't particularly _like_ the bastard, but I didn't hate him this much--in fact, I didn't hate him at all, especially after this year. Do you want me to run in circles? Cheer the news? Should I help you plan the celebrations? Would you like me to look into cakes for the occasion?" He tapped his own foot to the floor, to match his father's impatient tapping. "Well, _goddamn_, I don't know why I don't feel as _happy_ as you seem, but I can only assume it's because I have a soul."

Oh, if only his schoolmates had heard him, but even if they had, it would have further driven them apart.

He was feeling too much emotion when it was too late.

With cold glare, too, to match his father's, he took a circular route around him, without another word, and set off for his room.

Draco knew that he had just done something that a son, in his social class, was never supposed to do publicly, or even at all, in a perfect world. Disrespecting his father in front of the other men was a very risky thing to do. Now, especially in this case, knowing what was at the center of his family's core, it was a very shaky risk to take; the Dark Arts, the Dark Lord, the dark life: The Three Darks, as Draco had referred to them as, when he'd only been five years old. He had never embraced them, fully, at least to the extent of what had been expected of him, especially by the age of seventeen. He had told his mother these things, expressed his hesitance, many times, but she had always told him he was never to speak of those things with his father, never to express distaste for these Three Darks. He wasn't to acknowledge them with disdain and doubt. He very well knew that if he went against his father, against his family name, he would have no one to turn to. No one, at all, in the entire world, and he wasn't a person who enjoyed loneliness.

The part that stung Draco, as he reached the doors, was that he had just done this to his father, for the first time, what his father had tried to never do to him. And why? Over what? Why _hadn't _his reaction been joy? This news had their world up in arms, in mourning, and he was sure it was that way even though he had only just heard the news. He knew that most families were probably assembled around their Wireless Networks, a charmed network of invisible satellites that existed up in space like the muggle satellites, clinging and hoping to hear about any new developments, quiet and sullen and unable to express their grief and fear.

Quite honestly, Draco was headed for his own quarters to do the same thing, and maybe while he wouldn't mourn like they would, he would deal with this in his own way. He just wasn't sure what this way was, just yet, and remembering that he wasn't the only one in his home who seemed to be upset by this news, in some way, he turned around, at the doors, to see that his father was turned toward him, with his back to the men at the table.

Lucius, for once, really, seemed to be uncertain of how to respond to something Draco had said to him.

Draco put his hand on the brass door-handle and turned it, "You should apologize to mother for the way you've been treating her."

Not waiting for a response, knowing he was pushing it way over the line, Draco opened the grand wooden doors, both of them, at the same time, and walked through them. He didn't make himself close them, as he was sure his father would do it, himself, while contemplating on how to best punish Draco in a very blatant or strangely wacky way, but that was the least of Draco's worries. His feet were leading him to the left of the doors, down the Grand Hall. His surroundings had always been beautiful to him, but today he screened them, no matter how rich, vibrant, dark, gothic, and so warm the material and belongings were.

These things were his home. Even when the material things changed in the home, it always had the same aura about it. He thought about these things, and he thought about every other little, pointless fact that would not allow him to focus on the words that he had spoken to his father, and those he had read off of the front page of the Prophet, from those big, glowing, throbbing letters of hopelessness, of shock and panic. Panic, of course, that Draco didn't know his fellow wizards were going to be able to deal with. Well, at least not the ones who gave a damn about Potter.

The last damn time he had seen that smarmy, tragic twit, he'd said, "Have a summer, Malfoy."

_Have a summer, Malfoy_; not have any specific _kind_ of summer, just a summer in general.

Of course, he had only responded after Draco had been forced to tell him, "Summer, Potter; have one."

The sixth year of their infamous loathing dynasty had been harsh, intense, and cruel at times. It was the hardest year that Draco had ever been through, academically, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Every part of him had been tested, and he'd grown up in a lot of ways, and grown apart in others. Every day hard been a fight to make it through until the next. Outside of Hogwarts, a war had been raging, and within its walls, Draco had found himself straddling a line, a fence, he never had before, and he had struggled openly, much to the dismay of his Slytherin house-mates.

Parents of students in other houses had seemed to end up at St. Mungos everyday, and there had been deaths reported every morning by the Daily Prophet, to the surprise of the children of those men and women, and while, growing up, he had been prepared for this, he had never faced the human aspect of it until that very year, and while his friends had seemed slightly shaken, only at first, he had remained _thoroughly _shaken and somewhat disoriented through-out. There had been countless students that had dropped out of school due to depression and family issues, too, like having to take care of younger siblings because their parents had been killed in the war, and that had taken a toll on Draco's conscious, particularly. But, somehow, in some twist of Dumbledore's whacked brain, they had all ended up back at the school, and then some, often times having brought siblings, who were under the age of eleven, to temporarily live at the school, as well. Seeing tiny faces, in the courtyards, of kids without parents, some of those parents dead, no doubt, because of his own father, had really fucked with Draco's head.

It had been a strange year.

Every single person who had looked at Harry Potter, that year, had known he'd been falling apart, or had already fallen apart and was sewn magnificently together with a few measly strings of reliability, and of those people had been Draco. The sixth year was a year that Harry had been out of school, then back in school… and out of school, and then back in school. He'd miss classes, meals, and seemed to have never slept, which had always showed on his face, especially when he'd started to drop weight he hadn't really had to spare in the first place. He'd fought war, beside adults. Students, Draco had heard, had begged to be able to fight, fight for the world that was going to be theirs, but there had been an age limit. Of course, the only exception, as always, was Harry Potter, the grand Boy-Who-Lived.

Draco stopped in his tracks, thinking back to their last conversation, practically their most decent ever.

They had been standing in front of the Great Hall, together, on the teacher's platform, with the school watching on. It had been the awarding of the House Cup, which Gryffindor had tied with Slytherin over. Not a single Gryffindor had booed on that last night at Hogwarts; not a Slytherin had hissed, not a Ravenclaw had whispered, and not even a Hufflepuff had puffed. It hadn't been that kind of rivalry, that night, even between Draco and Harry.

Students had avoided them, that year, anyway, because of their tempers and moodiness, and even friends had faltered, it seemed, in both of their cases, at least that Draco could remember on his end or observe on Potter's.

Up until the middle of the school year, Harry and Draco had taken to dueling in the hallways. The dueling had gotten so out of hand that they had, honest to God, tried to kill each other in the hallways, multiple times. It had been common knowledge, by the second month in, that students just avoided certain hallways where Draco and Harry crossed paths. Yet, Draco had never made an attempt to avoid the Potter phenomenon. He had never made himself find a different route. Merlin only knew how many ways there were to get from one place to another at Hogwarts. But, at the same time, Potter had never tried to find another route to get to his classes, either, even when his friends had opted to not join him, anymore, and, in this, along with all of the other things that had changed at Hogwarts, and within Draco, something had been mended.

Though, that last night, all of those duels had faded into not-so-important memory, and they had shaken hands, firmly, for the first time ever, as young men.

Dumbledore, however, had seen them start to make movement for each other, and had stood up, as if alarmed, but Potter had only offered his hand, instead of muttering a curse, and Draco had known better than to not take it, so he had offered his back.

"Summer, Potter, have one," Draco mumbled, as if reliving the moment, his palms flying up to cover his eyes. He threw them away, still stopped in the middle of the hallway. His palms faced flat-down on his chest, as he brought himself to walk again, and his eyebrows were stitched so thoroughly that his head was beginning to ache. He had to get back to his bedroom as soon as he could, on foot; it was safest there, safe from the portraits of ancestors and furious fathers. Walking towards his room had always given him some sort of comfort. It would give him a bit more time to try to process the depth of the news, if… if that was at all possible.

It seemed that it was too deep to process, at least at that very moment, on that sunny June afternoon that Potter was, supposedly, not sharing with the rest of them. It was Sunny. It was… _confusing_. Shouldn't it have been raining? Storming? Lightning? Thundering angrily? The sun did not seem to fit the day.

Draco hurried down the family wing. Each door was closed but all of the windows were drawn open. There was sunlight streaming in down onto the cold wood of the floor, orange beams glowing warmly and looking inviting. It was false advertising. Even through his socks he could feel the bitter cold. The floor was usually bewitched with a warming charm, but, for some reason, the charm on such a day had been forgotten, or so it seemed. He hurried as fast as he could towards the stairs that led to the second floor of the manor. He needed to get to his bedroom, knowing that his own special edition of the Daily Prophet had probably arrived, as well. He always kept one of his bedroom windows open, even in winter, or when it was raining, for his owl and owl-post. His owl had never liked being shut out. He ever very much like Draco in that aspect.

When he was finally where he wanted to be, he sharply turned the door-handle on the dark wood of the bedroom door. He pushed the door open and walked in, kicking the door to a close behind him. For a long moment, Draco's five-foot, ten-inch frame stood stabilized. It had been such an automated action to run to his bedroom to get the answers he needed but now that he was there, he wasn't sure what he needed to ask or what he needed to seek. It was so automated that he hadn't had time to, or even let himself, fathom the thought of Harry Potter having actually been… _murdered_. Dead. Murdered dead, _Harry Potter_? It just didn't seem possible, especially for it to happen so abruptly, out of school, when Draco hadn't been prepared. He hadn't know there was a mission going on, and usually his father had always told him when something was going on in regards to Potter.

The bedroom that he had walked into opened up like the sun from the dark hallow ambience of the hallway that his bedroom was off of. The slate-hued dark green curtains of his large gothic windows were drawn back tightly; the house-elves knew his preferences all too well. The floor was the same dark wooden color as his door and the trimmings of his bedroom, but it didn't matter, because it was no match for the sun. Gigantic green rugs were thrown all over the floor of the room, though the wood was always polished and buffed, but he really did not enjoy cold floors on bare feet, and he didn't much prefer having to remember to put socks on when he was home, so he mostly jumped from rug to rug, now.

From the floor rose a wooden four-poster bed, black curtains twisted around each dark post and hanging over the top rafters. At night, he usually left them as they were. But, sometimes, when he needed extra darkness to put him to sleep, he would release the black velvet so it could drape all around his queen-sized bed. His bed was the centerpiece of his room, because it was where he spent most of his time when he was home. He liked to lounge on his bed, instead of his couches, and read, or rest, or look out his windows in search for something to do when mid-summer rolled around and all of the wonderful activities had become boring and dull.

The room, itself, was extremely large, nearly half the size of Hogwarts' Great Hall, all-in-all. The ceiling rose into an exquisitely carved dome where gorgeous scenes were painted in colors that blended with the wood. The wood came down and meshed with dark stone walls and the furniture. His room had always been his favorite room of the house. It was less fancy than every other room, more rustic and less put-together. It was real in it's beauty. It was natural, and it looked out over the beautiful gardens of the Malfoy estate which seemed to disappear into the forest that surrounded the property.

Something finally caught his attention by catching his eye; sitting on his open windowsill was a thick roll of familiar parchment, shadows from the trees outside waving across it in a soothing way, as if blocking it from the sun for Draco's sake, to make this easier to digest. He sighed.

Draco soon had The Prophet in his hands, and he walked to his bed, with frustrated eyes, as he untied the leather string that was keeping the paper enclosed. Sitting down on the end of his bed, the paper finally fell open in his hands, and the news was, once again, shining up against his eyes and reflecting in them. The words were less distracting than the picture of Potter that adorned the front page. It was such a glowing picture, with innocent eyes and a chirpy smile. _Bastard_. Draco could hate Potter all he wanted, but that damn Potter-twit dying hit him like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. He didn't feel remotely triumphant with this news, such as his father, and probably every wizard in every family that his own family was intertwined with, did. He felt a sense of foreboding, and even, wait for it... deep-seated, moon-crowing sorrow. _Sorrow_ over Harry Potter; it only figured.

Draco stood up, abruptly, and tossed the paper behind him so it landed on his bed, "_Shit_." His hands grasped the top of his head before he calmed himself and combed his fingers back through his hair, as he could touch it and make sense of it. He liked things that were easy. "What is wrong with me?"

Light taps on the outside of his door interrupted his sudden pacing and the hold his teeth had on his bottom lip, "Draco, it's mum. May I come in?"

"Yes," he quietly tossed in the direction of his bedroom door. His pacing stopped, completely, and he resisted chewing on his lower lip in anxiety, letting it go. If Potter was really gone, there would be no more Hogwarts, would there be? If Harry Potter was dead, and Voldemort had succeeded in penetrating Albus Dumbledore's safety precautions, why would anyone send their children back to the school? _No, no_, he told himself, suddenly. "Hogwarts is the safest place to be, period." He couldn't imagine it any other way, and he suddenly did not want to try.

Others would probably argue that Draco was standing on the one property that was actually the safest place to be, right then.

Narcissa Malfoy laughed with a strangled, though not unfamiliar, warmth, after she closed the door, "Are you feeling okay?" Her son hadn't been himself since he had come home for break. Every summer he came back a little more mature than he had been when he had left, but when he had come home, last, though he still maintained the air about him, he had _more than seemed_ different. He was more reserved. He seemed more content. He seemed to like a lot of things that he would never dare let his parents know, and he expected his own mother not to notice, and she did laugh to herself at the thought. His clothes around the house were no longer robes or dark trousers and button-ups, as they had been every year of his life growing up. He had taken to wearing muggle clothing, but no robes—not at all, ever. He no longer even wore the hats from Paris that he had always loved, though they were situated on one of his walls in a display of some sort of art piece. He didn't even come home from his Diagon Alley trips with expensive trinkets, but rather with handful after handful of magical bracelets he had purchased for the LIVEMUSICQUIDDITCHSEX program that had risen up over the year by young wizards. It promoted safe sex in their new world, aimed at the magical youth, with recreational programs at every corner of Diagon Alley, most of which had to do with music, charity, and Quidditch.

It provided a safe group to be involved with, so the youth didn't run into the "wrong" kind of people.

Narcissa hadn't brought up the fact that their family was exactly the type that those groups were trying to avoid, in the first place, but, rather, she had supported Draco when she'd first found out, after a bit of thought on how to approach the situation. Draco was his own man, now, and he was trying to make it known while not shouting it from the rooftops.

Draco had heard the amusement in his mother's question, so he cast a glance in her direction with dead eyes. He didn't lie to her; she knew he was going through some... things. He had been raised in a different generation than his father had been, which caused a lot of petty bickering matches between the two of them that his mother had, on more than twenty occasions, had to referee. It presented great turmoil in the house, and Draco knew it was only going to get more intense. Hundred-fold, maybe, after today. He and his father had very different views, it seemed, that separated them more and more as the days went by. His mother, however, had never taken to penalizing him for how he felt. Anyone else could think what they wanted to, they could even think that they knew his mother, but no one knew his mother. No one adored her as much as Draco did. He had always been his mother's son, much to his father's disapproval.

Draco shrugged, his fingertips sliding into his pockets, slowly, while his eyes focused on his bare toes, "It's hard to believe, that's all. Potter, _dead_?" He shook his head. "It doesn't sound right in the slightest. It doesn't make sense. It's like an oxymoron."

"I find it a little hard to fathom, myself," commented his mother, who held up her own copy of the Prophet, pulling it from under her arm.

"Have you read the details yet?" He asked, of the article, because he hadn't, and she would tell him if he was ready or not to read it.

"No. No, I haven't. I actually had some other news for you this morning, as well. I was going to tell you at breakfast."

Draco was just staring out his open window, leaning over the wooden windowsill of his mini-tower, "Other news?"

"Do you remember Judas Cliffdale, Draco?"

Draco half-turned at the mention of the name. The last name "Cliffdale" was known to every wizard in the world. They were one of the most powerful, if not _the_ most powerful, most private, secretive families that existed in the wizard world. His mother didn't seem to need to hear his answer because the answer was obvious to the both of them. How could he have ever forgotten Judas Cliffdale? It seemed nearly impossible, too, "We used to play when we were little, right? Before his father turned against Voldemort and went into solitary study of the Arts?" He looked over at his mother from the gardens below his window, slightly perplexed with the topic of discussion. "I don't even remember him, really."

Narcissa tried not to roll her eyes at Draco's lie, but she played along, "Good, then you won't have any preconceptions. He's going to be staying with us for the summer holiday."

Draco fully turned around, bewildered, "What? The whole summer? _Why_?"

Narcissa sighed, still standing in the doorway. She seemed very uncomfortable, now that Draco was paying for attention, "Because of an unfortunate circumstance, really. His mother, a dear woman, a dear old friend... she passed away this morning." At the look on Draco's face, that of confused curiosity as to her friendship with one of the most powerful women in their world, she stepped forward, and closed the door behind her, giving him a look as if to not question it. "Maureen Cliffdale, you've heard of her?"

"Of course," Draco responded, blandly, absorbing the story so far. His elbows rested back onto the warm granite of his open window. Draco had heard his mother mention Maureen from time to time, and she always did speak highly of the woman. But, as far as recent contact between his mother and Maureen Cliffdale, he hadn't heard a word of it, much like mention of himself and Judas Cliffdale; they had lost contact for a reason. It wasn't like Maureen would run with the aristocratic society that his own mother did, anyway. The Cliffdales looked down upon Voldemort and his supporters, down upon the Malfoy family.

"When we attended Hogwarts, Maureen was in Hufflepuff with me."

"Mother, you don't have to mention Hufflepuff _every _single time you bring up Hogwarts," Draco snipped at her, pushing himself away from the window, his attention still on his mother, who glanced in his direction with warning in her eyes. He snatched up a candy that was resting in a pool of other candies in a crystal candy-dish he had been given when he was a child. It sat on his coffee table, amongst the plush furniture that surrounded it. "Right, go on. Judas, Maureen, Hufflepuff isn't as bad as I think it is, blah, etceteras... _continue_."

"You'll learn one of these days, Draco. You'd think with all of the growing up that you've done, this year especially, your mind would be open enough to accept that the Hufflepuff stereotype doesn't exist in every case," she chided him, as he sat down, with his lean frame, gracefully, in the center of one of his couches. She walked up behind the couch opposite of him and bowed her head for him to be silent when he went to open his mouth to respond. "Maureen was my best friend, actually."

Draco stopped opening the folds of the golden candy-wrapper that had been crinkling under the explanation of his mother. His eyes squinted, and he glanced up from the candy, having a true moment full of questioning obscenities in his head, "Wait a second, Maureen? The_ Hufflepuff _Maureen, that… was Maureen Cliffdale?" He was astounded, and he felt his face flinch up in a "what in the bloody hell!" kind of expression before he could stop himself.

Narcissa kind of chuckled at his expression, too, "Careful with your expressions; you have your father's wrinkling forehead. What have I told you?"

"Mother," Draco sighed, with an annoyed tone, while he was still contemplating the masses of new information he had received that morning. He wasn't doing to well with any of it. It was like when he was trying to study and he read the same line twenty times and still didn't understand or really pay attention to what he had just read and couldn't, for the life of him, recite the information twenty seconds later. He didn't quite grasp any of it. "I've told you on multiple occasions that it's impossible for a face to get randomly stuck in unflattering expressions, and I don't want to talk about the father I get my wrinkling forehead from, right now. I can only take so much this morning." He looked at her. She gave a soft nod, digressing.

"I understand that, but you're a wizard, Draco. _Nothing_ is impossible. I would have stuck your face in those expressions for punishment, but you were a precious little boy, and no one wanted to see your angry faces. Merlin knows we've seen more of them then we would have liked to," she responded, pointedly, at him, as she pulled her wand out. She extended her right arm up into the air beside her, and then flicked her wrist at the space in front of her. A very unflattering projection of Draco, as a child, appeared. He was throwing a fit, clearly.

Draco immediately groaned, "I get it, spare me the trip down memory lane."

Narcissa sighed, almost disappointedly, her eyes fond of the small little boy, of about five, scrunching his face up in disdain over a piece of cantaloupe. The opaque mini-Draco tossed the piece of fruit at his father, then, across the small table they were sitting at, and an orange stain appeared on Lucius's expensive robe. But Lucius only laughed and pressed a small kiss on Draco's head. Her eyes shifted over to her son, who, too, was examining the picture with some sort of amazement, "We all change, Draco. Your father is no exception."

The picture burst, like the bubble of a memory it was. The concentration that Draco had held on the somewhat transparent image had faded away. He was still sitting on the couch, because he was still interested in hearing all about Maureen Cliffdale and why Judas Cliffdale was going to be staying with them. The obvious bewilderment was that Maureen Cliffdale, unless by secret correspondence, never spoke with his mother, and vice versa. With all of those years having passed between them, why, of all people, would it be her choice to have Judas Cliffdale stay with the Malfoy family? It was absurd.

"Maureen was the first and last true friend I ever made at Hogwarts. Like you, I had always turned up my nose to Hufflepuff when I was growing up. All of my friends were from Slytherin, except for the exception of two in Ravenclaw, and one very cunning Gryffindor. I've never told you this, because I know you've always looked down upon the Hufflepuff house, and you didn't want to hear it, but... when I was sorted into Hufflepuff, Draco, every person I knew, every single one of them, abandoned me," she explained, as she sat down across from him.

"I hadn't a friend in the world until the end of my first year. The other kids in Hufflepuff didn't talk to me, because I had alienated so many of them, had insulted them and their families growing up. Some thought I was just the meanest thing in the world. I had some girls who I said hello to in the mornings, and I sat with a group of them during the meals, but they never talked to me. But Maureen had never been mean. She had always been sweet. She had always somehow included me in what she was doing, but she never did it directly. She was smart, because we both knew that I had been a snarky little thing, much like you, when I was around most people. But, at the end of the year--sure, I'll have one of those--no, the chocolate kind... yes, thank-you, darling."

The way his mother was speaking about Maureen was so candid and so personal. Her voice was lowered, as if she was trying to make sure no one else but him was going to hear. She wasn't whispering, but she definitely wasn't making it an announcement or speaking at the tone she usually did. She fell silent, as she twirled the silver wrapping off of a chocolate candy that Draco had offered out to her, after seeing her eye the candy dish. His favorite candies were also his mother's favorites, being that she had introduced them to him when he was a little boy.

"Sorry, Draco, I'm sure you're not too fond of hearing your mother's old school stories."

Draco's eyes lifted up from his hands, "No, I enjoy it. You know, mother, you've never told me very much about your life at Hogwarts. I've heard stories about before it, and about after it, but never during, not really, except for when you met... _father_." He thought back on the story of their first encounter. His father had been a complete asshole to her, and she had cursed him under her breath and thrown a dirt ball at him, instead of a spell, and then told him that he was just as dirty as any mudblood at the school, because of his personality. Draco had found that story particularly hysterical as a boy.

"Yes, well, they're only stories," she added, quietly, of what he was talking about. "Maureen started to speak to me, directly, at the end of the year. She'd ask me questions, about what color nail spell I liked, and if I'd like to talk about boys. Girlish things, of course. But, that wasn't what made us friends. When we began to speak, and the friendship was open, we found we had many things in common. Our families, our society status, how I wanted to be a Slytherin, and she wanted to be a Gryffindor. We had common ground, but we were also so different in our ideals, which was what made us friends, because we were willing to listen to each other... we fell out of touch about five years after school ended. She told me that she didn't approve of my choice of how to live. At the time, she had also been a supporter, along with Gregarold. At the time, he was in his forties, and we were in our early twenties. She had just begun dating him. Together, they found a bond that was more powerful than your father's loyalties, stronger than her loyalty, perhaps, to me. They left, and I thought we'd speak again. A couple of years later, I had you, and she had Judas. You two played together nearly every minute for a whole summer... and then... well, we had a small falling out, the night before they left. I thought we'd talk, again, but we never did."

"I'm sorry, mother," Draco expressed, seeing that she wasn't sure if she wanted to say more. "You speak so highly of her. She must have been wonderful." His voice soothed, softly, as he leaned over his knees, with his hands folded together under his chin. Watching his mother speak of Maureen was heartwarming. She seemed to be so content when her eyes were staring somewhere with the concentration of her old friend. He knew that his mother hadn't ever had a _real_ friend in her society circle. She had her girlfriends, but not a real friend, not one like this Maureen seemed to have been.

"She was," Narcissa spoke, her eyes downtrodden with memory and her voice thick with emotion.

Draco reached over and patted his mother's hand, "Where does Judas come into this, then, mother?"

Narcissa cleared her throat, and took in a deep breath, as if embarrassed of showing her emotions in front of her son. Lucius had tried to raise Draco to be the kind of man that didn't care, or didn't show that he cared, about a woman's emotions, even his reaction to his own mother's tears. But, of course, Lucius had not succeeded, though he tried, because there had been more powerful forces in Draco's youth that had swayed him in the opposite direction. Draco, while always being Lucius's social pride, had always been a very loud, opposing voice to his father's words in their own home. He had always had a mind of his own. Plus, he was her son, and she had raised him right, to show emotion, and care for women more than he cared for men.

"It may sound silly to you, but I know it's what she would have wanted."

Draco tilted his head, his eyes squinting up in frustration with his mother's lack of explanation, "Mother, please! It's only you and I! Tell me more!"

"Okay!" Narcissa laughed, and then patted her hand over her son's, fondly. She lifted it and kissed it, gently, before returning it to him, as she stood up. She was the kind of person who needed to walk to concentrate on what she wanted to say, when it was something important to her, something that needed a great deal of consideration. "Maureen and I promised each other, when we were in our seventh year, that we would always be each other's soul-mate. So, we, of course, swore to each other that, if we had children, if something happened to one of us, the other would take the children of the unfortunate one of us into her home. When you and Judas were children, we still swore it. And we made a pact. I swore to that pact, and I have no intention of going back on my word now. I know that Maureen would have taken you in if something would have happened to your father and I, even after our falling out. Granted, we haven't spoken, but we have sent Christmas cards and such, and though it doesn't seem like much, it was enough that we both knew the other was still okay, still cared."

Draco stared at her, in awe, "What about his father? Gregarold?"

Narcissa laughed, "Gregarold contacted _me_, Draco. It's not safe for Judas to be with his family right now."

Right, "And why not?" Draco immediately intervened. He stood up, too, and followed her in the direction of his door. She couldn't leave him without the answers. Judas would have been most protected when he was with his father! That man was practically always hidden away, devising new evil dark magic that wizards paid millions of galleons for, anyway! Why would Judas opt to stay with a family he didn't even know? "I don't understand, mother."

"Draco, Maureen and Judas's brother, Alexander, were _murdered_."

Draco stopped in his tracks, feeling a whole new level of sorrow wash over him. Even if he didn't know Judas as an adult, he could feel sympathy and sorrow for a man losing his brother and his mother. His hand placed over his chest, and he could feel his eyes begin to dull over. He took a step backward and slightly turned in the direction of his large windows, again, blinking, "Murdered?"

"Murdered, Draco," Narcissa assured, gently. "Gregarold contacted me first thing this morning, before the papers came out. The murderers were after him, not Maureen, and not Alex, and not Judas. The three were at the family home, and Gregarold had left on a secret trip. Judas witnessed the whole thing under an Invisibility Cloak. When Gregarold called, Alex's condition was unknown, but Maureen's death had been confirmed by the Ministry. Gregarold wants Judas in a safer place right away. This is the safest place for him right now, away from the world he's been in and into ours."

Speechless, Draco turned his attention back onto his mother. Even worse than having a mother and brother being murdered was witnessing the murder. Because he could not find words to express any feelings about the situation, which might have been a blessing, he stepped back toward his mother, with his hands outstretched for her. When he got to her, he wrapped his thin, lean arms tightly around her shoulders, wrapping her upper shoulders in a tight hug. She had lost the one true friend that she had, supposedly, ever had, and had never made amends with. He could not imagine.

"He will be very fragile, Draco, and I do need you to be a lovely, cordial host to him at _all _times."

Draco was eventually let from his mother's tight hug, and vice versa, as she spoke. He could do nothing but feel pain for the whole Cliffdale family. It was huge news, but would obviously take the back-seat to Potter's death. Front-page news, on any other day. What was the world coming to? Suddenly flabbergasted by all of the news that happened in one night, he stepped backwards, again, while his mother opened the door. He walked towards his windows, once more, with long, powerful strides, "It's maddening, isn't it? Potter, getting the Front Page. Who cares if he's dead, anyway? The Cliffdales were far more powerful, far more prominent, far more--"

"Far more like the Potters than you'll ever know, Draco. And, don't fool yourself, because you're surely not fooling me. I'm your mother, you fool; it is impossible for you to deceive me into oblivion. I know you were fond of him, in ways. Reflect, love. It's healthy, too." Draco knew she was calling him a fool with affection, and smiling by the sound of it. Truth was, she was the only person who could ever get away with saying something so ridiculously true to him. "You do care, and you don't have to hide from this, Draco. It would not be healthy for you to feel anything but sorrow."

Draco turned his head, slightly, to respond, but the door had already closed, leaving the words to settle in. Disliking that she had gotten the last word, but glad that she had, especially about something like she had, he went back to facing his windows. He leaned into one, staring back out into the beautiful gardens, which had lost their luster due to the various questions and sadness mulling around in his head and in his heart. He looked over his shoulder, at the old muggle record-player that was bewitched with his Wireless Network, warily, where he would find all of the day's headlines and news. His nose twitched at the heat he suddenly felt flush over it, and he clutched the back of his head in distraught frustration, and then folded his hands over the back of his neck and closed his eyes as he tilted his head back, "I don't want to know what happened to you, Potter. I don't want to know how they did it. I don't want to know. You don't want to know, Draco. I don't want to know. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't listen. I don't want to know." Who was he fooling? He was the only one in the room!

Draco pulled the heavy curtains across all of his windows, one-by-one, each which hung from the tall tower-ceilings, making one round of his room. When the room was surrounded in darkness from all but one window, far across the room opposite of his bed, he fell down onto his haven of comfort, distressed and fighting something that resembled pain he had never struggled with or experienced to this degree over something like this, not to mention the giant, heart-burn like knot that had uncomfortable lodged itself into the base of his chest and was making its way up, slowly, hampering his breath. In the process, he pulled his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at the record player, giving in to his curiosity. He muttered "on," before his hand fell right back down beside his face, which was buried in the covers, knowing he wasn't going to be up to facing the day for a few hours after listening to the reports he knew he would discover.

_The startling murder of Harry Potter, this morning, marks the end of our world as we know it, Jim, and I mean that with as few dramatics as I've ever said anything. Agree? _

Draco sighed, loudly, miserably, and clutched the back of his head at the commentary and the emotion he could even hear from a stranger to both himself and Harry Potter. Yes, this news, today, was no good. It was no good at all, "What'd they do to you, Potter? _What_?


	2. Talks of Targets

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K. and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Two

Talk of Targets

_"Of course, Carl. Our world saying a... very... tearful, distraught—I'm not sure those words even quite do the job—goodbye to the tragic... excuse me."_ Sniffles, via Carl? Draco empathized. _"The Ministry announcing, of course, the news, shortly after five this morning. It happened, they're saying, sometime around four in the morning, after the startling murders of two Cliffdales, Maureen and Alexander, both prominently talented youth of our society. Carl, I'll tell you; I just... it's amazing that we're still talking, here. I've never woken up to a more terrible morning in my entire life. If you're just turning in to the European Broadcasting Company on your Wireless Network Charm, Harry Potter has been found murdered, confirmed by both Albus Dumbledore and, less importantly—"_

_"Watch it, Jim, this station is still sponsored by the Ministry."_

_"Ministry or not, I give them me bloody middle finger this morning, Carl, and tell them to kiss my big fat hairy white arse! Anyway, Albus Dumbledore and the Ministry both confirming the news, multiple times. We're not sure, yet, what we're to do. We have to ask you out there to stay in your homes. Don't go wandering about. Please. It's very dangerous. It's… more than dangerous out there. It's a death risk for you to be out right now. You sit yourself at home, contact your family members, and just... I don't know. What do we even do, Carl?"_

_"I don't know, Jim. I just don't know. Sit and stare at the wall. Bless that kid, bless 'im."_

_"Again, this morning, Harry Potter has been murdered. The details have not been released, but it is confirmed. The Ministry will be holding a conference from inside the Ministers' secret location for safety reasons. There's no word, yet, if there is any relation to the murders of the Cliffdales and Harry Potter. Once, again, Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy, will be speaking later this morning. I'm sure it'll be, oh, **informative**, don't you think, Carl?"_

_"If by informative you mean completely void of any information, then, yes, Jim. Informative, indeed."_

_"Perhaps this could be our last day on this show, Carl. Dare I ask you to test your fate, for once?"_

_"Not until the conference, Jim. Afterward, I'll give the listeners an earful about Lucius Malfoy."_

_"O'course, it's nothin' that they don't already know, a'it?"_

There was a small silence that finally made Draco lift his head from the bed, heart even heavier.

_"Carl, did you hear what they're saying? Word has it that there's a ball, tonight, to celebrate the life of Harry Potter."_

_"Do I want to know who's throwing this party, Jim? Do I even... want to guess? Dare I?"_

_"I dare you."_

_"Lucius Malfoy, hmm, and the Ministry. I wonder who will be at **that** celebration."_

_"Voldemort'll be sponsoring it. I wouldn't be surprised. Carl?"_

_"Jim..."_

_"Bless the kid, Carl. He called the bastard by his name, and so should we. We're adults."_

Draco's eyes finally flickered to the projection floating above the record player. It was about two feet in length and two feet in width, the projection. There were two men sitting in the small kitchen "studio" that they had started out in, in Carl's home. Both were chunky with strong accents, one British and one Scottish. Both had beards and were burly men, like lumberjacks or something of the sort. They had been of the working class, which was what had attracted so many wizards to tune into their show when it was on. Everyone loved Carl and Jim and their show—also appropriately entitled _Carl and Jim_. They delivered the news so earnestly and seriously, but now, this morning, they were both just slumped in chairs opposite of each other, just flipping through pieces of parchment, which Draco supposed were notes on the current happenings, press updates and releases, and their Floo network was wide-open, as he saw one of the interns for their show come through with an armful of papers and newspapers. Even he seemed distressed until he exited the view that Draco had; they all seemed helpless.

A ball, though? A ball to celebrate Harry Potter's life? It had to be a joke. Most certainly his father, Minister of Magic, who had done a pretty well job in regards to their economy and such, wouldn't stoop _that low_, even if he was _much_ more than just a Voldemort supporter. It had to be a sick, twisted, disgusting joke that someone was playing—perhaps another Death Eater, just for kicks, or maybe even one of the Ministry's Press Officers. The two men definitely didn't seem to be joking about the rumors of a ball. It was just wrong, and everyone in their world was going to know exactly what that celebration was, because no one was going to show up but Voldemort's supporters, because everyone else would be hiding away in their homes. The original fear they'd had, about Lucius Malfoy being in the position of Minister, would return ten-fold. If Potter was gone, there was nothing really holding Voldemort back, was there?

Though he'd admired his father, Draco was not, and had never been, disillusioned about his father's corruption and ties, of their world's corruption with the Dark Arts, with Voldemort. He knew it was the end of an era—the all did, which was why everyone was terrified, which was why Jim and Carl hadn't gone to their real studio and were sitting at home with one of their wives making tea, leaning over the kitchen counter behind them, with her palm in her hands. What happened, now, he knew, was going to change not only their world but the world of the plain Muggle, and not to mention those whom crossed paths with a wayward wizard, with a Death Eater. He knew that it was very unlikely that any brave man was going to step up to the plate to take on the Ministry, to take on Voldemort.

There was only one man who would stand and rise when everyone else was quivering. It was Dumbledore who was going to have to be the one to stand up and fight. It always had been Dumbledore that supported the weak, the mud-bloods, the powerful, and the pure-bloods. He stood for every non-corrupt wizard in their world. Dark magic didn't mix with his veins, exactly, but he had the mind enough to know how Dark magic worked and why it appealed to the people it did. But, Dumbledore... Dumbledore had to be destroyed over Potter's death.

Thinking of this, Draco turned himself over and sat up on his elbows, his brain going a mile a minute.

Dumbledore was either going to rise to the occasion, and rise furiously to defeat Voldemort, or he was going to fail, and fail… _miserably_. There was no in-between, now, was there? There was no chance for Voldemort to be defeated by the prophecy that had come out, publicly, a year earlier, to their entire world. There was no Potter to save the day, no one powerful enough to bring Voldemort down, exactly, or get close enough. Even the whole mass of good in their world would be compromised if everyone stood up to fight. So many men and women, and even children, would be likely to die if put against the Death Eaters or against Voldemort, himself. How… how were they going to make it through, any of them? It was true that, if things did change very quickly, drastically, Draco would probably see his stock rise. His power would grow. His wealth would implode grandly. He would be safe, always. But he never felt safe, even now, and he could not imagine how it must have felt to be in the position of a Carl or a Jim, with a wife and children, terrified of what was going to happen, now, and having no way of predicting anything, either.

_"Dumbledore's in hiding, we know that. His crew are. Aside from them, who do we got, Carl?"_

_"No one, right now, except for a couple of cocky, thickheaded teenagers who'll get killed for walking outside."_

Draco tuned out the conversation at once, and he could only really hear the rush of blood to his head, which had not happened to him, really, in his life, and now he'd had it happen multiple times that morning. Across the room, in front of that open and very bright window, there seemed to be a… a shadow standing there. At first he'd thought it was just a shadow of his curtains, but no. It was more. It wasn't shadowed enough to be anonymous. His eyes stayed stabilized, not bothering to blink them away as if he somehow could have anyway. He knew it was his imagination that was beckoning him to see the outline of the lean, tall Harry Potter, but part of him could not help but question why the hair all over his body was sticking up. He waited for it to disappear to his eyes, to make sense of it, but nothing came. He even blinked and it remained, and when he finally felt that he wasn't insane, he went to question.

The door swung open, and the transparent shadow disappeared like it'd never existed.

Though feeling the startling disappointment, Draco still shot up, straight, and looked over at his door.

In waltzed his father, "Harry Potter's dead, and I get nothing from you but insults! Insults, no less, in front of men you know you damn well should not have spoken back-to, to me, in front of."

Draco carefully stood up from his canopied bed, shakily trying to deny the words, trying to deny that his father expected him to be slightly celebrating, but mostly he was shaky because of what he had just seen for not such a short period of time. He looked away from his father and walked in the direction of the Potter-esque shadow that had visited him only moments before, right hand slightly out and forward, at the ready, in case something popped out in front of him. He looked around, when he was standing in front of the window, as if searching for Potter to show up. He even checked behind the curtain, quickly, with a peek. Why would he even want Potter to show up? He was supposed to hate Harry Potter, wasn't that his stark position on the matter, anyway? Up until he had heard the news, only minutes before, he was sure he had hatred for Potter that no one would have ever been able to understand. Perhaps it was all really just unsettled and undigested anger.

Indeed, it was proving to be difficult to understand, even for Draco. Everything involving Potter was complicated, it seemed, and always had been. Even from the outside, there was nothing about Harry Potter that was ever true on first impression. Something was always complicated and wretchedly unfounded in his foundations to the public. Remembering this, with a frown, Draco's eyes turned back towards his father, as did his lean body, and he tried to get a hold of himself. Perhaps, too, it was too later, as his father was looking at him strangely, "It's too complicated for you to understand, father."

It was too complicated for Draco, himself, to fully understand. He was feeling more sorrow and anger over Potter's murder than the fact that he hadn't been able to help in the murder, as he had always laughed and been overjoyed about. He was not a caricature, no matter what anyone thought. He had issues with Potter, issues Potter hadn't known existed, and now they were to settle, too, still without closure.

Lucius's eyebrows rose sharply. He didn't bother to close the door, which meant that he must have ushered any of the estate's staff out of the wing enough to be addressing Draco as loudly and openly as he was, "Do explain yourself, Draco. What have I missed since last evening? I do recall a snipe remark, over dinner, about you dreaming of the day that Potter would be gone—just last night, I repeat."

"The chance of you knowing the answer to your own question is better than me knowing it, father. Go away."

"I don't understand, Draco," Lucius spoke, clearly bewildered, taking the time to make it very known.

"Well," Draco tried, but then groaned and turned to him, "I didn't understand anything about you until this morning, father." It all came out so fast. It was so furiously shaking in his veins. Something had taken him over, perhaps not being able to figure out where that stupid shadow had gone, as he was still irrationally looking around for it. "I didn't understand why you had rarely smiled at me in the recent months—never came to visit me at school, and when I came home to visit, you were never here. I never understood why you were so eager to please _Him_. I never got it," Draco almost whispered to himself, as he looked out of the black rod-ironed window that looked over a different view of the gardens. His left hand was against his chin, his fingertips pinching his bottom lip. His right arm was wrapped across his chest, nearly protectively. Even, in his ideally blank state, he could feel that his eyes were narrowed at his own words. "And, then, with your late entry to breakfast, I _finally_ figured it out."

Lucius didn't ask him what he was talking about, and Draco felt overwhelmingly like a man because of it.

"I realized that Potter… was like Dumbledore, unsettlingly annoying… charming, even, and awkwardly witty, annoyingly good, and… a general people person. The world loved Potter, because, well," he flicked at the window, "he was… a good person." He couldn't believe he hadn't kept that to himself, that he had let it slip out of his own mouth, betraying himself, and to his father of all people. "Opposite, I am, like _Him_. There, always just there, cold, cunning, aristocratic, and a bastard, in general, to most people. No one would care if I would have been murdered." Draco spoke up a bit, lifting his chin, because something was liberating in admitting that. His long thumb stroked down the center of his chin, and then his left hand dropped. He turned halfway, his eyes settling back onto his father.

Something had happened, earlier, between them, when Draco had walked out on breakfast and did so while speaking with distaste of his father's behavior, but his appearance, so quickly after it had transpired, was unexpected. Unprecedented, really. It was a strange time for Lucius to come in on his high-horse and expect Draco to take him seriously as the ideal father-figure he had once been. Strange until he realized the look on his father's face was… _almost _vulnerable.

Draco had never seen his father look vulnerable like this, "What I realized, father, was that you care more about Potter, more about his death, more about your Lordship, more about your lord, and more about your power, than you do about me, your own son." He saw the anger flash. He was brave enough only to look away, and he did so. "If I would have been murdered, the world wouldn't have cared. I'm the Minister's son, sure, and I would make the papers, but... you, my own father, wouldn't care about the loss half as much as you care about Potter's. I wish I would have died instead of him, you know, just so he could wipe out your whole twisted mindset, somehow, and you could have been set straight."

Lucius stepped forward, with sallow, dark cheeks, and haunting eyes, and Draco saw so in the reflection of the window, "Draco, don't you dare—"

"What, pledge allegiance against you?" Draco unfolded his arms, with a laugh, as he faced his father, once more, and stepped, too, from where he'd stood calmly. "I won't pledge to Dumbledore, but sure as hell not Voldemort. And as long as you're off killing seventeen year olds, who hold the future of our ENTIRE WORLD in their hands, I won't pledge my allegiance to you, either."

"If you stop, now, we can pretend this conversation never existed," Lucius managed, after a moment.

"Father, you clearly _don't_ understand what I'm trying to tell you," Draco interrupted, with a frustrated growl, "I don't _want_ to keep pretending that everything is normal, that everything is okay, because it's _not_." Watching his father's eyes set into a very blank, hard stare, one that said nothing to him, Draco continued, trying to get the words through to him. He even threw his hands out in front of him, in the air between them, to try to get him to see that this was real, that Draco wanted him to _hear_ him. "It is not okay with _me_, and I will have no part in it!"

All Lucius could offer, after staring back at Draco for at least ten seconds, was a, "I didn't kill him, Draco."

"You did your part," Draco muttered, as he turned away again. "But leave the bastard out of this. It's not about him, for once. It's about me, your son." He stood behind one of his couches, with his hands placed over the top of the center section. "It's about you needing to hear it. It's about you needing to accept it. It's about you understanding that I do not agree with you, I don't agree with your views, and I'd rather you kill me, yourself, than be forced into the barbarian mindset that you've taken on. Though it is your way of life, I've spent seventeen years of my entire life wasting time and breath and investing feeling into something I never believed it. It's not MY choice, it never was, to be part of your world, and you will not force me. _The end, _father! Do as you must—see me away from here, out of the inheritance—anything, just so long as you hear what I'm saying to you, right now, and accept it."

Narcissa appeared in the doorway, and spoke before Lucius, "Draco, please don't do this right now."

Lucius's eyes did not break away from his son's face, nor did his eyes blink or his face move the slightest.

Draco, not wanting to argue with his mother, or have her even hear the conversation, or be a part of it, turned to her, "Was I not raised, by the both of you, to make my own choices? My own decisions? To give up EVERYTHING for something I believed in?" He was angry with his mother for trying to dismiss this, now. She knew how big this was, for him to be this brave, to face his father directly and speak his displeasure openly without hiding behind words and tip-toeing around the issue. His eyebrows stitched as his mother looked at his father, with a sigh, but Lucius seemed to be in a trance and would not look away from Draco, and as frightening as that was, and even though Draco was unsure of what it meant, he could not back down, now. He had gone too far. "It backfired, I suppose."

"The annual ball is tonight, Draco. We should have spoken about this sooner, much sooner."

"Oh, like last week?" Draco turned away, aggravated by the sudden come-to-life comment his father had just said, quietly. It hurt so bad to feel the familiar feeling of hopelessness and cynical responses come out of him. "Or last month? Or the twenty letters I sent about it from Hogwarts? What about last summer? All of those conversations must have just slipped your busy mind, father. Merlin only knows how distracted you must have been with plotting murders and then covering up your tracks."

Never, not once ever, had Lucius's murders—aka "duties"—been spoken about. It was never, ever acknowledged.

It was obvious how shocking it was, by the loud gasp of his mother, and the stride forward that his father took toward him, with cold, cutting eyes. When Draco realized his father was advancing on him, his heartbeat quickened, and he was sure, momentarily, that he was about to be killed. Fear took him over. Somehow, though mostly because he was too paralyzed by that fear to move, he ended up staying right where he was, and like most times, his mouth went to save him in whatever way it could. "What, father, are you going to kill me? Curse me? Beat me? Strike me? Go ahead, go ahead and prove to me what I already know, that you're an _evil_, corrupt, murderous, manipulative, power-hungry, disillusioned _prick_." And, he didn't feel a hit of any kind, so his eyes rose to look at his father, from where he had been staring out the windows with his best careless, non-terrified expression, though he was sure he had failed. "How about kicking me out, would that do? I'll leave, willingly, and I'll take my muggle clothing with me. I know how happy that would make you."

Lucius was stopped and completely immobile, staring eye to eye with Draco, though from feet away.

Draco held his head just as high as his fathers, not afraid of staring his father straight on, now, for the first time ever, during confrontation. He had made his father stop, cold. He had had an impact. The lock of eyes broke, and his father turned, sharply, looked at his mother, without conviction, without anger, and without fury. A huge knife seemed to be slicing across his chest as he saw the hurt in his father's eyes. Pain? Hurt? Vulnerability? What was going on? His father had never shown any of those things, no matter how verbal Draco had ever been with him. Astonished with this reaction, Draco's blood started to chill and ice over, his heart started to pound furiously. He hated how he could dislike his father so much and then feel like he was Voldemort's soulless scum the moment he knew he had hurt his father, even if his father hadn't shown it. Now that there was something else there, it hurt even more.

They had had their fights in the past, but Draco had never called him evil. Draco had never called him a prick or a son of a bitch. He had never been willing to leave. And he most certainly had never said that he would willingly leave his own home just to get away from his father. Still, with the faltering pain, his silver eyes watched as his father turned around and walked right out of the room, not very slowly, past his mother, who silently stared at Draco with stunned blue eyes, like she could not believe he was her son. She seemed almost afraid to look at his father, too, though.

"You should not have said that to your father."

"It needed to be said, and you both needed to hear it. Now, please," his voice cracked, but he was trying to maintain an air of maturity. He had just taken on his father, so he knew he damn well couldn't crumble into a mess of emotions with his mother right there. "Leave me be."

"Draco, he does love you. You should not have spoken to him that way, with those words. That was… beyond out of line."

"I should not have told him the way I felt? That's grand, mother. Do you have any more passive opinions from the fifties that you would like to share with me?" She looked stung, but he didn't care. He glowered at her, feeling disheartened that his mother discouraged him from speaking these things to his father, like she hadn't heard his frustrations, and even his tears, over the matter in the past. "Tell him not to expect his son to be proud that his father is a murderer. Ask him if he expects his son to look past that. I can't look past it, anymore."

Narcissa sighed, about four times, before finally muttering, "Since when have you disapproved?"

"Since when have I?... Are you _serious_, mother? SINCE ALWAYS! GET OUT!" Draco shouted at her, appalled that she'd even ask him that sort of question. Had he ever even APPROVED of his father being a murderer? No! He had dealt with it, he had dealt with his father being a Death Eater, but that was because he'd preferred not to think about _what that entailed_! That didn't mean that he approved of murder, of death to innocent men, women, and children. She had closed his door for him, as soon as he had finished yelling at her, without another word. He wasn't raised to yell at women, but he was furious that she had even asked him that sort of question. If she thought her son to be evil enough to accept, openly, that being a murderer should be okay in his eyes, she was insane.

Draco climbed into his covers, with the numb of the morning still in his blood, and willed himself to sleep.

Sometime later, a form plunked down onto the bed, "Do wake up. You look horrid."

Draco's growled, wrinkling his forehead. He'd never fallen completely asleep, but he had taken a sip of a Potion one of the house-elves kept around for peaceful pre-sleep, so his mind hadn't had to wander and analyze, "What are you doing here, Zabini?"

"Your mother is worried about you, and she sent me up to check on you." There was a slight pause, and Draco could tell he wanted to ask what was particularly this wrong. "My whole family is here, downstairs. The Ministry put together… quite a masterpiece with such little notice."

Draco had been trying to ignore the fact that his schoolmate, and one of his closest friends in the world, had been walking around in his room, for a good five minutes, before he had attempted waking Draco. At Hogwarts, it was just a known fact that the person who would wake Draco up out of a deep sleep would have his pants hexed down multiple times a day and usually in front of large crowds. Acknowledging Blaise's words, Draco knew that it must have been true, and he must have had been sleeping for a very long time, indeed. He very much loved Potions that made him sleep, and loved them more because he was able to escape his mind for awhile. This affirmation of the ball, however, woke him up quite unpleasantly. Granted, he was pleased and felt slightly liberated that no one had dared come to wake him up, not even his house-elves, but this was most unpleasant news. How could his father have had allowed this? If he had wanted to appease Draco, this hadn't been the way. If he'd wanted to further prove to Draco that, on his list of important priorities, Draco came very last, he had done precisely what he'd needed to.

With a scowl to match the day, the events of which suddenly came back to him like bullets with vengeful butterfly wings flapping angrily, he pushed himself up onto his hands and then sat up straight on his knees after climbing to them, restless and feeling sick to his stomach with emotions he could not quite place so soon after waking up. He looked right at the dark-headed seventeen year old lounged out, now, effortlessly and carelessly on his own pillows. "Zabini, your eyes are swollen."

"A fine observation, Draco, but one from which you can not hide," Blaise responded, immediately. It was obvious that they were both having a confusing day and both over the same reactions, probably, to the same news. "He's dead, shouldn't we be celebrating? You've been talking about this day for _years_, so why in the hell are you laying on your bed, looking a hot mess, no less? And, your hair, Draco. _Really_? You must be devastated to have let it get to this state—been tossing and turning for hours?"

"What's wrong with my hair?" Draco immediately snapped, it being the first thing he could respond to without letting Blaise in on just how accurate he was about Draco's current "state." He climbed off of his bed, as if to clarify that he wasn't moping over Potter, and that, _hell no_, he wasn't looking a mess over Potter. But he was—just, Blaise didn't have to know, was all. The morning had started off so easily, with a pop out of bed, and he'd been so… _happy_. It was the summer holiday, and he was _home_, and the next year, he was supposed to go back to Hogwarts, see Potter on the first day, and assess what their relationship, if any at all, would be like in the year to come, like he'd done every year. But _no_. He sighed, as he was faced with his reflection in the mirror. "_Bloody hell_."

Blaise wasn't exaggerating. Draco's hair, which had never, ever been a mess when he was in front of anyone other than his house-elves and parents, was tousled and free, no longer combed neatly and properly tended-to. His face has lost some of its usual glowing, Cheshire-cat likeness, as well, and he only knew this because he had come to this conclusion on his own. His smirk had never been entirely his own, rather a man name Cornwell's, who gave credit to the Cheshire Cat, himself. He stepped closer to his mirror, which was above the long wooden bureau, in which his clothes were neatly pressed, folded, and put away. His hands cupped around his face, almost making sure that the person in the mirror was really him. It was.

"Go, get yourself together. Some of the others were here, too. I'm sure they'll be up to see you if you don't show up downstairs sooner or later. Took me ten minutes to get to your wing, you know, but those girls always do manage to find you super quickly."

Draco walked towards his bathroom, silently, without having replied. He stopped, though, and turned around to face his friend. Still, Blaise seemed distracted and distant, but not distant from Draco, himself. His hands clutched on his sides, lightly, and he lifted his eyes up to the huge ceiling, feet and feet above him, knowingly in a certain amount of worry over a few different sub-sections in his mind. Always a Malfoy and a Slytherin, he was prone to organization, even in his mind, "What happened to us?"

"If this were yesterday, I would say nothing. But, with my tears about Potter, and your... breakdown, which is building up, over Potter, I'm sure, I'd say that what _is_ happening to us is nothing good. Me, with the witty comebacks, today, and you with the lack of snarky bitterness? Me, having to be forced, by your mother, to come up here and make sure you show up downstairs WITHOUT being forced? It's just not right."

"She told you, then?" Draco sighed, defeated, as he walked into his bathroom.

"No, but I think she figures I'm the only one of your friends who won't tell a soul about your hesitance."

Draco stepped out of the bathroom, holding a black comb, in mid-air, up by his left ear. He only really peeked out, though, having little energy to move the extra foot, "It's not that, Zabini," he assured, without trying to hide it. "My father waltzed into breakfast, this morning, with a whole troop behind him, all of 'em looking like death was knocking right on their chests—and they were opening the door with welcoming arms. The doors were pushed open so fast they could've unhinged. Picture my father smiling. Genuinely, at that."

Blaise suddenly looked bewildered, and then laughed, "I've never seen him smile, actually."

"That's the point exactly," Draco explained and pointed his comb at Blaise, who was nodding his head, as if he were trying to understand. He did sit up, though, seeming very interested in the conversation. "Beaming, ear to ear, shaking the Daily Prophet in the air like he'd just been given the Alchemist's _Dream_ Stone." He shook his right hand up in the air, imitating his father and reliving the moment. He, however, wasn't smiling. He combed the rest of his hair back, returned his comb to the bathroom, and then reemerged back out into his bedroom. "I don't know what happened when I saw Potter's picture. I didn't even have to read the headline. Something just... snapped. I'll kill you if you ever tell anyone this, but since you're here, and neither of us downstairs, I feel it's all right, just for today: I feel like we're all completely fucked. I was counting on that asshole."

Blaise nodded his head along with the words, "I heard it on the Network when it was first reported. I had just woken up. I thought it was a dream—and then I started to think it was a nightmare. I felt so... _horrible_."

Draco sat down beside him, on the bed, and stared out the bright windows, which were all now open, the curtains having been pulled away to let the sunlight stream in. He didn't even understand his own reaction to the news, "I was so furious at my father. The joy on his face was there because Potter had been…" He found that each time he went to say it, it got harder to say, "murdered. _Murdered_, Blaise, like it was something to celebrate. He's—was—_our_ age," he hissed, under his breath, his eyes flickering back to his friend, who was only still staring out the windows, too, completely still. "I knew it had been coming for quite some time, now. My mother knew. My father ignored it. But, when I saw him, and then saw that pathetic little picture of Potter, from last summer, that they used in the paper, it was like being slapped with reality."

"I understand my father's politics. I understand he was raised the way he was. I understand... that anything other than a pureblood isn't acceptable to him. I get that. I get that he found some God-like figure in Voldemort." He was shoved by Blaise, who then looked around, paranoid. Draco ignored the reaction. "I always tried to ignore the fact that I hated everything he stood for. I thought I was a pansy of a man because I didn't understand why he had to take his political and social views and turn them into action—and not just action, Blaise, but murder."

"Draco," Blaise suddenly asked, and he seemed shaky, "what did you do? What did you say to him? Your mother looked so strained when you were mentioned. Everyone was asking where you were, and she just... your father was right there, and he didn't answer, just looked at your mother and then excused himself. It was awful—downright terrible. The papers will be full of gossip."

Draco lowered his head and laughed, lightly, over Blaise's question, "I told him I wasn't going to pledge my loyalty to him, or Vold—okay, okay! _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_. He never forced me into the circle, and he probably avoided my reluctance for my own good, for the good of our family. I kept finding ways to avoid talking to him about it. I even set the kitchen on fire, once, so I didn't have to talk about it, did I tell you?"

Blaise suddenly burst out in laughter, "No."

Draco sheepishly grinned, still looking at his hands, "I did. I think he realized, then, that I needed time."

"I can't even imagine you saying that to your father. You're supposed to be his prodigy."

"Yeah," Draco chuckled at the vision that his father had had for him. "I told him I thought he was evil."

Blaise emitted a loud groan, "Merlin, Draco! Your father wasn't anywhere to be seen downstairs! Now I know why."

"Like that's my fault," Draco interrupted, rising from the edge of the side of his bed closest to the windows. He walked toward them, giving a dry, frustrated laugh. He hadn't quite noticed the expression on Blaise's face just yet. Every time he'd said murder, however, he'd seen Blaise clench a fist or sturdy a shaking foot. "He knew it was coming, Zabini, he just didn't want to see it, or maybe he did see it, but he didn't want to acknowledge it, so his own son wouldn't turn against his ideals. And, then, he asks me why I'm not _happy_ about Potter's death, like he's offended!" Laughing with loud, furious anger, Draco spun around and slightly leaned forward, his hands outstretched to Blaise, who was just staring at him. He wanted Blaise to understand, and now it dawned on him that Blaise was wearing that expression, somewhat unreadable, full of confusion and regret. "What'd he want from me? To ignore that he's a murderer? To think nothing of the fact that he murdered _Harry fucking Potter,_ directly or indirectly, and then was the happiest he's been, in YEARS, because of it? No! He's a blooding FUCKING PRICK."

"Draco, you're not going to... pledge?"

"Never," the silver-headed young man hissed at even the mention of pledging. "I'll die before I pledge."

"Uh, I'm pledging."

Draco didn't turn back around to Blaise, "Don't miss the celebration in the ballroom, then."

"It's not like that."

"It is like that. You're pledging yourself to be a murderer, and that merits idiocy."

"I can't revolt against my entire family, Draco."

Draco turned around, after a long silence. He was just in time to see that Blaise was storming for his door, in a powerful exit. Draco followed him, at ease, feeling sick to his stomach at what had come out of Blaise's mouth. How could Blaise pledge to the Death Eaters? How could his best friend, in the world, be more concerned with how his family would react than concerned about having to actually murder fellow citizens—innocent wizards who Blaise knew and talked to on a daily basis? It was wrong and twisted, and if Blaise wanted to try and excuse himself to Draco, he had another thing coming, "No, you're too much of a chicken-shit to revolt against your family. You think your mother is going to be happy that you're pledging, you thick-headed bastard? You could revolt against your father all you want to, Blaise, and you damn well KNOW your mother and sisters would be on your side."

"Fuck you, Draco," Blaise bit back, when he had the door open. "You know it and I know it; _they_ aren't going be thrilled that Lucius's own son isn't going to pledge in July. For fuck's sake, your father is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's _right hand man_! And you think he's going to want you in your father's home, when you have no loyalty to keep, to yourself, what you hear around here? You're going to make your father a target—"

"Make my father a target!" Draco exploded, angrily, standing back at one of his many large, open windows, because he did not trust himself to be close to Blaise. The idiocy coming out of Blaise's mouth sent cringes of disaster up his own spine. Blaise was pledging himself to a terrible life sentence. Was this what Blaise honestly thought? Did he not look further into the whole situation of Voldemort's crew expecting their sons and daughters to pledge? Did he not see that he was believing exactly what they wanted him to believe? "That's something he should have thought about before he made his own UNWILLING, unborn _son_ a target seventeen years ago! I was never given a choice, Blaise, and you weren't either! It's just what they're molding you to be! Why can't you see that!" He threw his arms out! "What have we always seen them as? You want to be that? _A murderer_ who agrees to do it out of _fear_?"

Blaise went silent before he turned around, walked out, and slammed the door to a close behind him.

"Make my father a target," Draco repeated, haughtily, and then kicked his wall. He doubled over, then, a few seconds later, but did not immediately get back up. Instead, drained in so many ways, still, he just sat back against his wall, clutching his toes as the throbbing began to wear off. "I really need to think before I do that next time."

It was some time around night-break that Draco walked out of his bedroom and into the grand hallway that was outside of it. He was dressed no differently than he had been most of the day so far. He was feeling a little disoriented with everything that had happened, of course—who wasn't?—still not knowing exactly what to make of his world, that morning, and he had no one to turn to, really, whom he could speak about such things with. It put a sizable kink in the acceptance process. He had no intention of joining the gathering in his home even if there might have been a legit celebration going on, because he knew that later, when the cameras had left, there would be a private gathering, and he really didn't want to be there for that. He did, however, know exactly where some of the guests, more notably female guests who had an ear for rumors and mouths for days, would be standing around and gossiping, now, and that was in the front entry hall.

Draco walked from the wing that his bedroom was in until he reached the balcony that looked down upon the entry hallway. It was a beautiful, grand room, with ceilings that rose up into beautiful carved cathedrals of dark wood and tinted colors that made beautiful murals. He made his way, albeit slowly, towards the center of the balcony, hearing the chattering and hushed whispers of guests. It sounded like a thunderous gathering, so he allowed himself to walk to the center of the balcony to take it in. He kept a small distance from leaning against the wooden and dark-stoned barrier, but he was close enough to see all of the guests, being able to identify them by their clothing, voices, hats, robes, and faces.

"Where had Lucius disappeared to again, Narcissa? Ministry business, I suppose? Looking at his speech?"

Narcissa was a wonderful actress, and Draco thought it was inspiring, "Oh, yes, of course," she replied to the woman, very notably tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear—a tick, Draco knew! "Ministry business, of course. With Harry Potter's murder and the murder of Maureen and Alex, he has a lot to be keeping an eye on."

"Maureen and Alex? Do you mean the Cliffdales? Narcissa, I didn't know you knew them so personally."

Hmm, it was a wonder that that woman didn't know anything about anyone, especially his mother! Draco's eyes examined the batty, elegant woman standing opposite of his mother with a bit of a cocked eyebrow and lidded eyes. She spoke in such a loud, shrill voice. Everyone knew what was being said between them, obviously, because of the continued tone from the woman. She was the best gossip in all of London. Seeing that his mother was uncomfortable with the questioning about the Cliffdales, Draco cleared his throat and he did what he did best whenever his grandmother was making his mother uncomfortable: distract her, "Dear, dear Grandmother Rose."

Draco was leaning against the balcony with his arms crossed over his chest, at ease, when the attention of many of the ladies, in close proximity to him, turned to find the source of the gentle, though quite strong, voice. He was very good at acting, himself, and he saw his mother give him a sweet smile, at once, that was a mix between a "I'm glad you've decided to come down" and a "Thank-you for distracting your grandmother," and he smiled back before he glanced at his grandmother. "That's a beautiful broach. Is it new?"

The lady loved talking about her shopping expeditions even more than she loved talking about herself, and it was quite an understatement to say that that was a lot. Immediately, she patted her hand over her diamond-encrusted broach and shrilly replied, though she was slightly smiling at Draco's appearance in the hall, "You, boy! What! Where are your dress robes? Narcissa, your boy is informal! And addressing me as such without a title? Look at him, with those—"

"Muggle clothing at a formal magic event; it's horrendous, isn't it, Rose?" Questioned a dull voice, which silenced all of the waiting guests in the more private area of the hall. It was Lucius, who had stepped out from behind a door to the left of Draco's view, which he knew to be one of his father's business studies. His father conducted many personal meetings and deals in that room and spent a great deal of time, by himself, in that room. "You'll have to excuse my son, everyone. He has forgotten his manners. Draco, do approach your grandmother more appropriately when you apologize to her. Only after, of course, you go and change into your robes."

Draco's eyes fell upon his father, whom appeared both bored and upset with him. Draco was not exactly back in obedient son mode, and he openly smiled at his father, so he knew what was coming. He dropped his own arms to his sides, to appear less defensive or insecure, as he took a step down one stair, "I'd rather not look like a poof today, father. I'm in my own home, am I not?" He saw his father look bewilderedly at his mother, very tensely, and then back up to him. "But because everything that you say has to go, or else I'll be punished, I must go change into my robes. After I do so, I'll burn my muggle clothing and then come down and join you and your... _sophisticated_ friends for a nice quiet tea before your ball to celebrate the life of Harry Potter. Then I will watch your... _sincere _press-conference about what a tragedy his death is. You'll let me know when I can speak, thereafter, father, yes? And you'll have to tell me when I can stand, too. Oh, and, of course, you'll have to let me know when I can use the toilet."

Narcissa chuckled, and even Rose did, with a bit of a proud smile at Draco, which he felt warmed by.

"Fine, Draco, stay in your muggle clothes and brood," Lucius retorted, before Draco could continue on in his at ease, yet very pointed, tone. This was nothing surprising to anyone. Draco and Lucius always battled over his clothing, and plus, it was pretty much all his relatives around, now, in the hall, as it was the more private hall. With nothing more to say on the subject, he turned his attention away from his son, who seemed completely content in his muggle clothing, even though it was improper and appalling to the many guests in the entry hall when the event was supposed to be formal. He glanced, once, back at Draco, who was standing tall with his hands on the banister. "You see, ladies and gentlemen, Draco is a _man_, now. He has informed me that he's moving out later today. His things, of course, are already being packed."

Draco blinked, confused, but then smirked, quickly, when he realized he wasn't to react childishly, "Yes, _ladies and gentlemen_, it's true," he sighed, so heavily, like he was ashamed to admit it. His father looked up at him, because Draco was imitating him. "I have a mind of my own, therefore, according to Articles A and B of the Malfoy Dungeon Ward Laws—although it should be there is nothing ethical about them in the first place, so why should this be a surprise—I shall be banished and slash or disowned, depending on whether or not I bow to my father, because appeasing him is, naturally, the most _important_ thing in the world!"

"Draco, why do you hurt your grandmother so?" Rose asked, though not entirely serious, still smiling a bit.

"Sorry, Grandmother," Draco apologized, and then sighed. "It's the muggles. They must have brainwashed me."

"Narcissa, when did Draco become so annoying?" Lucius asked, before he turned and looked straight up at Draco, again, with threatening, although more annoyed, eyes. "Go along and play, Draco. You are, after all, a man, now, and you don't need to be standing listening to your father's conversations. That's child's play, like eavesdropping. Hurry along, now, or you'll miss your manicure appointment."

Draco paled, "Yes, you should try one. The blood must get beneath your fingernails. You _do_ wear gloves."

A pin dropping onto the floor could have been heard.

Draco stared at his father, not at all amused by his mocking words. Draco had never claimed that he was a man. Making his own decisions about his morals was a manly thing to do, and his father thought that DRACO was the feminine, misinformed one? And why? _Why_? Because Draco didn't want to be a murderer, at the end of the day. He didn't want to contribute to the murder of innocent people. It was like his father thought that something was wrong with Draco for not wanting to have a hand in such things, which was absurd. Seeing the intense fury in his father's eyes gave him enough satisfaction. He looked down at all of the guests, mostly his uncles, with disproving eyes. They were a sorry lot.

"Draco, one more word and I swear to Merlin," his father hissed through clenched teeth. It was sharply heard, "I will kill you, myself! Not another word! Not another sentence! Go! Leave. Go to your room. Go out. Go. Just go. And, tonight, if you are not IN THE BALLROOM, after the ball has begun, dressed in respectable attire, with your manners, and more than willing to take part in the evening's business festivities, I will kick your scrawny little ass out onto the streets. No money, no nothing. Go, get out of my sight, you ungrateful bastard. GO!" Instead, furious and very obviously upset that he was having to yell at Draco, Lucius was the one who exited. He stormed to his tall, gothic office doors, his robes swishing madly behind him, and disappeared into the black space, and closed the door, quietly, behind him.

Draco was already down the hallway when he heard the door close. The entry hall was still silent, but he didn't care. His father thought he could just insult Draco like that in front of company, and then expect Draco not to retaliate? It was horrible and hurtful enough that his father and mother, both, dismissed his feelings and his wishes, but doing so in front of relatives, relatives who grated at his nerves, was a very low thing to do. Furious at his father for every damned thing between them, Draco entered his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. "Bastard!"

After hours and hours of pacing on the floor of his bedroom, deciding whether or not to attend his father's ball, he finally came to the conclusion that he had to go. It was in his own home, all of his friends would be there, and though his father was a complete asshole, sometimes, and wanted his son to be a _murderer—there was no getting past that word in his mind!—_Draco didn't want his father to be singled out by Voldemort for not having had his son attend the evening and have it be known that he was actually at the estate while the event had been happening. He would go, he decided, and observe the party. He would smile, nod his head, and try not to show the dislike for his father. That would, however, mean that he was going to have to, essentially, avoid his father for the whole night which was, by all society standards, impossible.

Done up in fantastic red robes, which he was wearing as a personal statement in honor of Potter's death—what, the massively passionate Gryffindor crimson just happened to be the same color as air-exposed blood, sure. Yes, that was, indeed, true. He dressed to suit himself, for the night, and he knew he looked damn good, which was enlightening, because if people were distracted by looking at him, he wouldn't have to engage in unwanted conversation. It was a perfect balance, really, if he was going to try and survive the evilness and soullessness of the night. It was worse that it was evilness he had still been semi-embracing until that very morning, and his brain wouldn't let him forget it.

Standing at the top of the grand entrance stairs, he could see the crowd of wizards and witches that had gathered, from all over the world, adorned in expensive dress robes and fancy hair styles, holding wine glasses or snatching one off of a silver tray as a waiter swerved in and around mingling parties. It was the Minister's Ball, whether or not Harry Potter was dead, and most people would rather trade an arm than miss the annual Minister's Ball—this was the place to be. His eyes drowned, dully, and unhappily, in the ear-shattering chatter of the grand entry room, though. He was standing in the same place as had been, before, when he and his father had engaged in that nice verbal sparring of public words that Draco was regretting, now, after having though about it.

From the ballroom, he could hear the distant pop-brilliance of an old nineteen-eighties song playing over the record machine. He knew it because he knew it was a muggle song called Heaven is a Place on Earth, but he didn't dare joke about the fact that his father had refused to listen to muggle ANYTHING, in his house, when Draco had been growing up. Still, now, it was re-recorded by some awful pure-blood superstar who was known for eating Cheese-puffs and lip-synching. Giving in, Draco finally trotted down the grand staircase, looking above all of the heads and right to the open, lengthy entrance doors. He wanted to bail, and he was under the impression that he wouldn't be missed, nor would his lack of presence be noted.

However, Draco did stick around just long enough to see his father's twenty-two year old "mistress" falling all over him, right in front of Draco's own mother. Disgusted, yet highly entertained by the look of panic and discomfort that had washed over his father's face, at the presence of his mistress, Draco leaned back against the in-house bar area of the ballroom, watching from a distance. Once his mother walked away, with a horrible stare at his father, Draco couldn't help but chuckle. What kind of mistress greeted her man, that way--or any way, really—In front of his WIFE? Come on, now, friends. Did she need lessons on how to be subtle? Even her dress was as far from subtle as possible. His eyes skipped over the crowd, however, looking for any sign of someone he could get a clear read on.

In front of the grand entrance doors, a new entrance was about to be announced. As the announcer went to say his name, to present him, like he had every other guest, the young man stepped right through, without his introduction. Impressed, and a little amused, Draco felt his eyes squint and his posture straighten. At last, when his eyes found the face of the equally-aged wizard, he stood up completely straight from lounging across out against the bar. The young man was looking around, and, as Draco stepped forward, casually, still trying to examine the extremely pretty face of the young man opposite of him, a pair of dark eyes settled right back onto him. At once, Draco found a genuinely-likable smile, "Judas Cliffdale, my how you've grown," he greeted as the space between them closed to about five feet, in the center of a large crowd, all having turned their attention, immediately, to the new arrival who had been announced as Judas Cliffdale.

Judas stopped, and then Draco did, "You look exactly the same, Draco. Just larger, with ego."

Draco grinned, coolly, impressed by the words that immediately hit him back. Now, he hadn't seen Judas Cliffdale in about eleven years. But, when you have a childhood friend, a childhood best friend, you remember, distantly, every feature and the overall appearance of the once-upon-a-time memories. It hadn't been hard to place Judas. He was gorgeous, honestly, and Draco would admit it to himself. He had been a pretty boy, even when they'd been little, with extremely long, dark eyelashes that hooded over honey-brown eyes. It was how Draco had first immediately put a name to a face, and then, having added in the soft, perfect, somewhat small nose, and the strongly defined cheekbones and full lips, it had all come together. Of course, not having seen each other in such a long time, Draco had no idea how to talk to Judas, and even less of an idea of what to even say. But he was in a pissy mood, angered with the day, angered with the death of Harry Potter, and, well, he didn't feel like being all that proper in reintroducing himself, and Cliffdale would just have to deal with that.

It appeared that he didn't have to, either.

"Which seems impossible, because you were always pretty full of yourself, even at four."

Draco half-smiled, but he said nothing. It was a real smile that had appeared on his lips. When Judas had said what he had, Draco hadn't felt offended or the need to be on the offensive. He was just being teased. It proved that Judas remembered Draco just like Draco had remembered Judas. There was a bond there, but Draco wasn't sure why it was as strong as it was. Inwardly feeling vulnerable to the bright, deep brown eyes, that were still looking him over, Draco stepped forward a bit, coolly, shaking himself out of it. Judas's arrival had attracted way too much attention for Draco's liking, especially when they were all staring at him. Couldn't they have been a bit less intrusive? The man's mother and brother had just been murdered, "Come on, we'll find my mother. She wanted to be alerted as soon as you arrived."

"Wait," Judas laughed, as Draco began to guide him away from the eyes of some of the most socially and economically powerful wizards in their society. However, Judas didn't stop walking with Draco, just kept his attention on Draco rather than everyone else. He did glance around, though, once, before he looked back at his childhood best-friend. At his words, Draco stopped, awkwardly, when he noticed just why Judas was staring at his face, so focused on something below his lip. "Your scar is gone."

Draco didn't understand, for a long moment, but then he looked down at the floor, touching his fingertips to an area below the right corner of his mouth. How had Judas even remembered that scar? Then, again, remembering that he, himself, had recognized certain small features about Judas, like the light, hardly-noticeable scar on the bottom of the opposite lip, it wasn't a surprise that Judas would be looking. At the time, after it had happened, when he had been asked to get it removed, by his father, he had been so angered. It had been a battle-scar of Draco's. But, over the years, it had slipped his mind, "Oh, yeah, a few years ago." He, then, paused, finding the scar on the smooth face opposite of his. "You still have yours."

The dark-haired young-man smirked, hard, "You pansy, I bet your father made you get rid of it."

Draco's jaw dropped, stunned, when the words had left Judas's mouth. WHAT! Wait a second! He blinked, twice, in awe of the sudden words that had left a burn mark slapped across his face, "Did you just call me a pansy? You just called me a pansy," he half-chuckled, under his breath, thinking he might have heard wrong. No, actually, he knew he hadn't, but he had to check. Judas was scarily accurate. Lucius HAD made him get it removed before he had started Hogwarts. It had never been too noticeable, but it had always "flawed" his face, or so his father had told him. His father had always been more concerned with Draco's face than his mother had been

Judas smiled, lightly, and it was clearly full of ease. He nodded, but continued walking, as he laughed, "I have my answer."

Draco turned his attention away from Judas, because he had immediately been pulled away by a group of women who had called him by his first name. It seemed that they did know him, genuinely, and after the original startled response of being tugged away from Draco, he seemed to return the affectionate greeting to them. While this was going on, Draco's eyes tried to search the crowd for his mother, but they ended on his father, who was standing at the side of a makeshift stage, his eyes on fire, sipping away on something clearly alcoholic, watching Draco_ very_ closely. This expression burned Draco's chest, so he immediately looked away. His father had never been the type to brood in public, especially not so openly, and especially not about _Draco_.

Distractedly, Draco placed his left hand carefully over Judas's shoulder, interfering in the words that were being shared. For a long moment, Draco was floored, listening to the condolences coming out of the mouths of the women surrounding the blank, completely rigid lean form that was Judas Cliffdale. A strong burn took over Draco's hand, so he immediately withdrew it, his lips parting in shock. What in Merlin's name! Ignoring the pain of the electrically static shock that Judas had just given him, and more concentrated on the quickly deadening eyes that were narrowing on Judas's face, Draco physically intervened, slightly stepping in front of Judas, "Excuse me, ladies, if I could just steal him back from you? Thanks."

Instead of trying to guide Judas away, Draco just looked right at him with alert and suspicious eyes, though they were not for Judas to see. He didn't have to guide Judas away, because he was already walking straight through the small circle of ladies, his dark eyes sparkling with fury and anger, as they parted the way for him, eyes trailing after him with a bit of confusion and some offense when he didn't excuse himself. Draco didn't say anything to them, or even look at them, as he followed the dark being in front of him. Not once did Judas stop walking through the crowd of ever-parting people, clearly not knowing where he was headed and clearly not caring about where he ended up. However, as Draco followed, he did look at everyone else. The way their eyes landed on Judas was... so... scary.

It dawned on him, then, that, although this had been his friend when they'd been little, this was still Judas Cliffdale. His father's arts were the darkest practiced. His appearance was gorgeous, but his eyes were so furious, so seemingly dark and mysterious, but only by perception. What was under them, Draco knew, was something that no one could relate to, really, not even him. No one had his upbringing, or his talent, Draco assumed, or his legend, and that was something he could relate to. No one had his father or his social status. No one was feared so strongly, having been hidden away from the world and living under legend and myth. But was it myth? No, it was true, and the myth was spiraling out of hard control, leaving a seventeen year old to leave the world he had known to live in a world he didn't know, where peoples' eyes feared him, awed over him, and tried to hide from him. They wanted things from him, all of these people who his family was in cohorts with, and the way they were all turning to look at him, straight out of a muggle movie, even made Draco's spine crawl. Whatever issues he'd had with his father, he suddenly felt very grateful that his father had raised him as he had, not hidden his family away like Gregarold Cliffdale had. Still, though, Draco couldn't help but ask himself, as he watched Judas, too. Why did he seem quite _so _familiar? This aura that he put off, where he dared not be touched if one wanted to live… it wasn't entirely unfamiliar.


	3. Enemies To Friends & Friends To Enemies

**Disclaimer****:** The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K. and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Three

Enemies To Friends & Friends To Enemies

Draco only realized where they were once they had come to a very sudden halt. His eyes lowered from blurry and nameless faces to find one he was all to familiar with. It must have been with utmost misfortune that they ended up standing directly in front of his father at the very end of a very long line, and neither of them, clearly, wished to have landed where they had. Although Draco could not see the reaction of Judas's face, at first, he shortly was enlightened when, without saying a word to Lucius, Judas spun right around to Draco. Draco studied his face, closely, after taking one tired and weary look at his father. It was a fine mix of seasoned expressions, some of it finely tuned and some of it not. There was something of a panic that had seemed to flush over the even skin tone before him. Whether or not his father, Lucius Malfoy, was the Minister or Magic, Judas mostly meant little offense by turning away. For whatever reason he had, it had been person. It was most unfortunate, however, that this was the Minister's Ball and people were watching, of course. To have turned away from Lucius Malfoy, Minister of Magic, without even saying a word, well… that would have been talk, the next morning, in the papers, if Harry Potter hadn't surely snagged nearly ever article in every newspaper for the next week.

Not wanting this to turn as horribly awkward as it was looking to promise, Draco pulled his arms out from where they were clasped, behind his back, and looked past the angles of Judas's jaw and cheekbones. He forced only a look at his father. He was not a cold man to not understand why, perhaps, Judas would react to him as he had. It was best of Draco to smooth it out. Judas was, after all, going to be a guest in his father's home. He cleared his throat at Judas, but quietly, and the message had been received without a command, because he, too, turned back to face a very steely, stony-faced Minister of Magic.

"Father," Draco lightly worked in between their cold hard stares at each other. There was, he realized, more going on than he knew, but whilst they were in the company of most of the important and elite members of the Wizarding world, it was best they at least feign a tepid and very brief conversation.

Lucius looked at Draco with a tilt of his chin in the air, but it was only slight. He looked over Draco's face, and somewhere in his head, Draco heard that his father was thanking him for taking it upon himself to save the situation. His eyes then slid to Judas, and Draco then decided that even a lukewarm reception was going to be reaching. There was no emotion, just a blankness, as Lucius looked straight at Judas, and said, in a low and strangely stubborn tone, "Judas Cliffdale, I presume."

Draco felt that there was another version of himself, like, two feet away, twitching.

"Yes," Judas finally replied, though it did not come out harshly. A pause followed, and he seemed to be thinking of what next to say. Instead, he blinked once, as if shaking himself out of some exhaustive mental trance and relayed his tactic in an equally low and almost-mocking tone, "but presume nothing more about me."

Draco was stunned, somehow, and he clearly wasn't the only one. Not outwardly shocked, no, and not forced to pop a cocked eyebrow or deliver a part of lips, but it was a mental notation that was not to escape notice. There was something very haunting and hinting in Judas's socially-fixed voice—and it would really only be described as that, as Draco would not have figured him to have spoken that way by just looking at him. It was a sudden change; gone was his breeze of ease, and, too, in front of Lucius, he was standing tall, perfectly straight, with a set-stoned face and a straight line across his mouth, not turned up nor turned down. Awkward, because it looked somehow similar.

Draco found his father's eyes, feeling a loss of stability start to rise in his chest. Because Judas's father was WHO he was, and they lived in another country, Lucius meant very little to Judas's life, politically or personally. Personally, on a whole different level, he had probably spent his growing years hearing old stories about Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort—however regional a Minister was, Voldemort and his ways went far past the lines drawn on maps and in sand, past boundaries and into each and every corner of anyone who had anything to DO with magic. When Draco thought about it this way, he could understand how Judas could have turned away from the Minister of Magic, really. Draco never would have thought it possible from his own angle, but Judas did have a power over his father by personal reasoning. His father was richer—although much to Draco's displeasure, every year, after he'd read the new list of the 5 Richest Wizards and Witches rated by Wartes magazine—and more elusive, and, somehow, more elite. To have been looked down on by a sixteen year old, so very openly, must have killed his father. It could have been a five year old, and he still would have been bothered by it, Draco figured.

Just as Draco had been working it out in his head, the logistics seemed to have settled between his father and Judas, as well. They had not spoken, maybe had not even had a silent conversation, but, still, somehow, the openly blank looks had faded away into cold stares before either had attempted to pretend to respect the other.

"Mister Cliffdale, remember you _are _addressing the _Minister_," spoke a lady from beside them, so quietly, as if informing them both of something they did not know.

Judas took a step forward and outstretched his hand, then, out of nowhere, and insisted, "I know who he is."

Lucius only looked down at Judas's hand, his own hands folding together in their black velvet gloves, and he did so thoughtfully, before promptly looking back up to Judas's face, again, almost as if to say that there was no way Judas would have wanted to shake his hand, and because he had gone to, it was only natural to assume that there was something behind the shake, something most unpleasant for him. He said this all just with one tiny smug smile at the younger man.

Draco was pretty impressed, he had to admit.

Judas didn't blink, didn't waste a moment, before he opened his lips and thoughtfully replied, "I'm glad you know your place, then, Minister," and whatever leverage Lucius Malfoy had thought he'd had, or whatever point he'd thought he'd made, had disappeared.

Draco's lips did part, this time, but more in a disbelieving way, and he kind of eyed the lady next to him.

She gave him the same look back. Lucius had just been one-upped by a teenager, and it had been _epic_.

Lucius pressed his teeth together, most unpleasantly, and he even made a noise, as if to insist that had been unexpected, and because he was the Minister of Magic, and, some said, not entirely a horrible one, to the general surprise of the public, and stepped forward while Judas took a step back, with his upper hand in a pretty package sitting atop his head, because Lucius seemed to be staring at it, willing it back to him.

Judas stopped, and then Lucius did. A silence settled between them before Lucius looked at Draco, with absolutely nothing in his eyes but intolerance, which probably meant he was going to have Judas thrown in the dungeons—although not really; it was just that Draco was his son, and therefore the mediator between them, clearly—and then back to Judas. He lifted his right hand then, and, in a painfully slow s and agonizing manner pulled the material off of each of his fingers. When his hand was bare, he put it out. Oh, it made a point. Lucius hadn't done that for anyone else, not even those who worked in the positions directly beneath him. It was a large gesture, mostly intended for the gathering of onlookers, and with a bastardly fearlessness only a Malfoy seemed to be able to foolishly wear on his face, he said, without one drip of compassion, "I'm sorry to hear about your mother and brother, Judas. They were a treasured part of our world."

Draco breathed in so hard, but the ice-like sound of disbelief it made was lost amongst the murmurs of those around him, and those were either out of those agreeing with Lucius or those who saw right through his words, like Draco did. He wanted to do something. He just couldn't. All he could do was stand there and grimace. It wasn't like he could even say anything to his father about the comment, or stand up for Judas. There were people around!

Judas tried to hold it in, he did. Draco watched him, the way he was staring at Lucius like he did only have his one head, but two faces—and he did, Draco thought—was very likely. Except, if their positions had been reversed, and someone had murdered Narcissa and Draco, and someone else had shamelessly rubbed it in like that, Lucius would have killed them dead. Judas at least showed some restraint, quite honestly.

"You," Judas breathed, finally, through clenched teeth, jaw set, "bastard," was all he could seem to manage, but he suddenly grabbed a hold of Lucius's hand, with a death grip, and stepped into him—more like stabbed into him—and the security wizards stepped a little closer, all alert, but Judas didn't seem to care as he got close, so no one else, really, but Draco could hear. "If you _ever_ mention my mother, again, in my presence, I will _kill _you."

Perhaps, to those who were not close, it just seemed like a very (very, very) firm and tight, intense handshake between the two. It was clear that Lucius only tightened his handshake to make it appear that Judas's handshake wasn't as painful as it appeared, and he did a swell job of hiding the discomfort on his face. Flashes went off, by way of media, and Draco watched as the lights invaded the space between his own father's face and Judas's face. Although it blurred out most everything else he could have heard, and the reaction—of the applause or the uncomfortable mutters—blocked their words, Draco was not convinced nothing else had been said. It might have been best that way.

Their hands dropped, lightly. Lucius put on a tight, cutting smile, and Judas turned back to Draco.

"Do give your father my condolences when you see him," Lucius added, with a bit of a mocking wave of his fingertips, like the suggestion was merely an afterthought.

"Enough," Draco blurted, disgusted, towards his father, but was sure it didn't each his ears.

Judas had been looking at Draco, anyway, and though he stopped, at the words, he did not turn around or even do anything rash with his face. When Draco found it, Judas seemed as clear-headed as he could have possibly been. Draco could only offer the tiniest of sympathy in a fleeting moment when he thought no one was looking. It was full of, "My father is an arse," and, "I'm so sorry you're subjected to this, today of all days," mixed in with a bit of confusion, because Draco was still put off by the way his father had approached Judas—a sixteen year old boy who'd just lost his mother and brother, no less, that very same day? Besides, in public, when there were cameras documenting this, who was his loyalty to? In the public eye, it _had_ to be his father, and he had to keep the inevitable disgust off. Sure, he wasn't his father's biggest fan, but he wasn't in favor of watching his father get axed off by a hormonal, devastated, scarily frightening seventeen year old in front of the entire world.

Draco did not look at his father again, but he was sure it didn't matter anyway. He just sort of tilted his head to the ground, to his left, and motioned Judas to come, to not give his father the satisfaction of getting a further rise out of him. Judas complied, and they walked, silently, without having to do much weaving, anymore, because people parted for them as they made their way to the entrance doors.

The doormen swung the doors open, and when they walked out, Judas more like… s_tormed_.

When they were in the entry hall, which was just as crowded with gossiping attendants and happily chattering new arrivals, Draco didn't have to try hard to stay in step with Judas. He was fast, and he always had been. He was quick and agile, and he had the Quidditch skills to prove it, supposedly, but Draco wouldn't admit Judas had anything on him. Soon enough, he was right in step with Judas, again, in a more protective manner than he'd let himself be in the ballroom. His left shoulder pressed in against Judas's back's right shoulder blade, walking quickly toward the stairs of the house, as people turned to see the both of them, at the announcement of their names into the room. It was then that Draco realized that, perhaps, the two of them were probably the two most powerful and potentially influential wizards _of their age_ in their entire world. Well, if it had been the day before, they would have been the second and third. Potentially.

Having a bit of trouble trying to keep up with Judas and still be seen as polite by not knocking into people, which would surely have gotten him in gigantic trouble with his mother, the next day, he finally actually looked at Judas, with a bit of What The Fuck Syndrome and bit, "Would you slow down? _You don't even know where you're going_."

"I don't care where I'm going, and the faster I get to wherever there is nothing, the better off I'll be."

With a scoff, both slightly amused and intrigued, but also still thrown and confused, Draco didn't stop to apologize to the people who had to spin out of the way to escape the fast-paced, powerful, strong strides that the two were taking, at least not this time. Draco's left hand grabbed at the back of Judas's cloak, on the center of his back, and he gripped the velvet cloth in a full fist and pulled on it.

"I hate to tell you this, but heading upstairs is not going to ensure you a correct head off to _nowhere_. You're not going to want to be here tonight," he said, under his breath, keeping his eyes on the stairs as they sprinted up, together, on the same steps at the exact same times, and the sound it made somehow bounced off of his hears like pins dropping on tins. "Hell, _I_ don't even want to be here tonight."

At the top of the stairs, Draco led Judas towards the balcony, and Judas followed, "We should leave."

Draco turned around, a sudden smile capturing his mouth, and he lifted his eyebrows. Um, tempting, actually. He saw Judas sort of smile, too, but more with embarrassment. "We should _leave_? That wouldn't be at all suspicious, would it?"

"There are worse things to be suspicious about. No one would miss us." He paused, then, while they looked out over the mingling guests. "Then again, I suppose you're making a heartfelt speech about Harry Potter, tonight, and you surely wouldn't pass _that_ up."

Draco's eyes lifted from the colorful collection of hats, wigs, and hairdos below, thoughtfully, but he said nothing. For a moment, he looked out the large arched window that looked out into the forest and into the night sky on the wall opposite them, thinking of this comment. He wasn't quite sure just what to make of it, but, well, it just fit in with all of the other things he didn't quite understand that day, either. He was sure he could file it away another time, and because of this, he turned to look at Judas. Not to say anything about the comment, but to look at him because of it.

Judas was staring at him—well, he was, but quickly shifted his eyes down onto the celebration of mourning—and it wasn't a particularly friendly, thoughtful, or teasing state. He could not blame Judas for saying or thinking anything. They barely knew each other, quite frankly, on a level that friends did, but they knew enough. He knew they had battle scars from playing when they'd been six, and they'd laughed at night, when they'd been eight, over a game of exploding snaps. They had history, and he couldn't help but laugh when he looked at Judas, expecting to see the eight year old version, and found that he was still there, just had developed cheekbones and a jaw. He draped his right around Judas's shoulders, lightly, suddenly, and sighed, but there was no awkwardness from Judas. The way his mind was working, suddenly, he knew his eyes were sparkling in response

They both looked down at the silent crowd below.

Extremely smug, and gazing very happily at his _hopefully _brilliant new Something-Or-Another, for the summer, Draco lowered his head and gave him an answer, just because it seemed to be what he wanted, "I think you're onto something."

Judas's eyes shot right to his, "You're going to fake condolences?"

Draco looked away from him, then, with widened eyes, and couldn't help the exasperated and slightly amused, slightly sour smirk, "_Ouch_!" He insisted. "You read the papers, obviously."

Judas laughed, though suddenly. He smiled a _brilliant_, at-ease smile, and Draco was happy that he'd caught it. It was the first time he'd seen it, and he approved long enough to watch it speak, "Not really, I just know history and the rumors. Who doesn't?"

Who didn't? Draco feared the world to believe him to have hated Potter. There was nothing so cruel, especially on that day. Had they known the year, mostly, he'd shared with Potter, and the duels, and the laughter—although bitter and always after a rough fall—they wouldn't have thought so. What he'd never-had with Potter had been complicated, and so he just said, to put it out of conversation, now, and get it over with, "I never wanted Potter to die."

"Sure you did," Judas retorted, as they looked back down at the silent crowd, still examining them.

Draco decided not to tell him what an ass he was, and he said, instead, "I _did_."

It was silent for a long moment, and then Judas faced him, fully, not even awkwardly pausing to do so, "Are you really trying to tell me that you're not slapping-your-knee happy Harry Potter is dead?"

Draco could only laugh. For someone whom he had assumed had never met Harry Potter, and hadn't known Draco Malfoy since Draco Malfoy had met Harry Potter, he was sure opinionated on what was what. The thought that Judas Cliffdale might have been a fan of a do-gooder like Potter was too amusing to get upset about, "Actually, yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Oh, okay," Judas suddenly responded, like he clearly had no other choice but to believe Draco, and that Draco would not lie to him over something so serious as the matter, and stood up perfectly straight, like he Draco was a conviction and Judas was supporting it. He was a glorious sight, like no other young man Draco had ever been able to honestly place, or at least not used to having so close. The reaction of Judas was amazing, to Draco. He unwrapped his arm from around the broad shoulders beside his, as Judas turned into him, with very interested, impressed, friendly brown eyes. The form of Judas Cliffdale was almost identical to Harry Potter's. He noted this, but then scolded himself for even comparing the two. Potter was dead, the end.

"What?" Judas questioned.

"You believe me, just like that?" Draco asked, squinting with awe and suspicion.

Judas stepped backwards and away from the balcony, "I saw the way you were looking at your father in there, so you can't be entirely one-sided, can you? I'm in."

"You're _in_?" Draco asked in a high, bewildered voice. He laughed loudly, at once, as he began to follow Judas away—again, Judas had no idea where he was going, but this time, Draco didn't bother to tell him so. "You haven't even heard my idea enough to be "in!" And you wouldn't be involved in my statement anyway! You're mad, Cliffdale!"

"Oh, no," Judas insisted, at once, with his hands out in front of him, like he was rubbing at some material in the air between them. "_Mad_ is Draco Malfoy making a speech about Harry Potter. The look on your father's face, however, when you do so will make my week."

Eyes alit, Draco turned around to him, so he was walking backwards, and said, thoughtfully with an index fingertip resting at the corner of his mouth, "God damn, Cliffdale; I like the way you think."

"We're both evil, Malfoy, but we're the good kind of evil. We might as well use our talents for evil's good."

"I never knew there was such a thing."

Judas wrapped his arm around Draco's neck, this time, as they turned a corner, coolly, and thoughtfully reminded him, "You've never met my father."

Draco had never met Gregarold Cliffdale, it was true, but he was still hung up, "Right, whatever—back to this evil-can-be-good thing?"

"Sure, if you look in the right places," Judas laughed, though quietly, as he explained this, and he laughed like it was the most obvious thing ever, which left Draco wondering just what kind of kids Judas had known after he and Draco had parted ways. "Don't you ever think about it? You grew up on Voldemort's _take_ of the Dark Arts. I grew up with the Dark Arts, devoid of Voldemort's influence. Voldemort is hardly the worst thing that can happen to any wizard, any man—even any mortal man," he proposed, slowly, as their pace heeded until they were stopped and facing each other, because, yes, what he had said was true.

Judas looked around, almost paranoid, before lowering his voice and continuing, "The Dark Arts aren't meant for _killing_ or purposely doing only terrible things. They're an art form, and I grew up not relating the Dark Arts to Voldemort, not to sweeping out mixed blood and whatnot. There's nothing that attaches the two for me, and so The Arts aren't evil to me. They're good to know, so when evil does come along, like Voldemort, you know how to battle evil with what's behind evil. Evil never expects to have its roots thrown on it. It's like battling certain diseases. You kill the disease with it's own disease at the earliest deformation of a cell's breakdown. You wait until evil is in it's best moment, and, then, it's like it's written in the universe—something good comes out of the high-point, and usually because bad-evil was pushed down by another evil, an evil put out in the universe to keep itself from destroying the world. They cancel each other out."

By the time he was done whispering, they were in Draco's room with the door closed, "Evil _is_ good."

"I think so, to a certain extent," Judas urged, but then half-smiled. "The worst thing that can happen to a man is when evil takes him over—the call of it—bad-evil or good-evil. It's always been said that everyone has a good and a bad side, but... the devil side, it isn't necessarily bad. It's a good evil, it's such a good evil that the good side is able to calm it, to put it at ease, because sometimes the bad side does good things—but, when a bad-evil comes along, it pulls the good right out of the innocence that your devil side may have, and your good side is placed on the back-burner, but not because it's gone or because you can't hear it, but rather because an impure evil drifts into the soul of the devil side, and the karmic balance is gone. The sole PURPOSE of evil is to destroy whatever it comes in contact with, and it has been that way since the beginning of time. It's purpose, just like the purpose of light, or good, is important. You choose what you want to be—not that you don't struggle with it, but you do get to choose."

If there was anyone who needed to hear it less, it was Draco.

"My father, then," Draco whispered, as they looked out his bedroom windows and into the cool breezy evening. "Do you think he's gone?"

"No," Judas responded, honestly, quietly, and then they looked at each other. "True evil is rare. Your father loves you. His love for you would come above all else."

"I don't know, sometimes, honestly" Draco sighed, his eyes locked back onto the gardens. "He's definitely getting there."

"Every evil has a weakness, you know that. The Devil to God. Voldemort to Potter. And vice versa. There is evil in good, just as there is good in evil. It just happens to be more prominent in evil. For obvious reasons. Evil in good, you know, it's selfishness and vanity. It's for self-advantage. You can only take evil so far in good and good so far in evil. However, good, in any case, when it's in evil's form, it's usually about destroying something else evil, like revenge."

Draco smiled to himself, then, hung his head… and then laughed before lifting it and smiling, fully, maybe for the first time in the past year in a half, because it ached at his cheeks and jaw like he'd been smacked multiple times with a quaffle, "I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah," Judas laughed, under his breath, meeting the friendly eyes, though he seemed almost hurt by them. "I think I am, too. I just wish the circumstances were different."

Draco's eyes didn't falter, and he pushed himself up a bit, because they were both leaning over the thick stone window ledge, both of their arms having been wrapped in front of them. Looking over the grounds seemed to give a great deal of relief to Judas, just as it did to Draco, and that was a good sign. Remembering, now, why Judas was there in the first place, and how distraught he must have been, Draco wrapped his left arm around his old friend's shoulders, once more, and looked back out over the gardens, and with Judas, "I really do, too. I never really got to know your mother, but she was lovely to me when we were little. My mum has never spoken so highly of any one person in her entire life, and no matter what you've come to think about my mother, or my father, know that my mother has never held anyone so dearly to her heart," Draco assured, under his breath, allowing himself to find his own vulnerability to show to Judas. Judas was fragile, now, as Draco turned his full attention to him. "I'm so sorry, mate. Life is truly unfair, maybe even more-so _unjust_."

Judas looked back at him, silently, and just nodded his head and looked away again.

Although this was another very strange moment that he filed away with the two he'd already somehow put in the same mental filing case, Draco couldn't help but find a small laugh at the reaction, in case he'd taken it the wrong way. He wouldn't express such concern just yet. He flicked a fingertip at Judas, leaning against the sturdy stone of his window, "You can cry, you know. We were raised the same way, by our mothers. I wouldn't tell anyone."

Judas laughed, too, his whole face lighting up, before looking down at the ledge, "If I start, I won't stop."

Draco squeezed his shoulder, lightly, with his left hand, and just nodded, because he understood. What he had meant when he said that they were raised the same way was that they were both children of their mothers' rather than their fathers'. It had been obvious when Judas had walked into the ballroom, for the very first time, that he had been similar to Draco in a way most young Wizards were _not_ groomed to be, much-less in their circles. His appearance was flawless. He was well-groomed, well-spoken, and the way he had addressed women was more formal and appreciative, even affectionate, than the way he had addressed men he had run into or who had been trying to get his attention. This was normal, anyway, yes, but the reason Draco knew it to be true was because, really, he knew, their fathers were busy men, and because of this, their mothers had taken to raising them. They were lucky, because others had been stuck with nannies.

Still now, Draco knew that Judas was holding back tears in case Draco was opposite of him and was brought up not to show emotion in the form of tears. This saddened him, but he didn't say how much. No, he did not go around crying. No, he did not cry often. But he knew it was okay to. He sniffed a bit, then said, quietly, as to not step on Judas's toes or get too overly emotional, "Well, least of all things to worry about are options. You have quite a few: I can take you to your guest room and you can spend the night in there, get settled, and just... _be_. You can come downstairs and enjoy watching me give a speech about Potter to the worldwide audience of Wizards and Witches. Then we can find my mother, as I'm sure she'd rather spend time with you, if you want to talk, than spend time mingling. Or you could... go out, if you'd like. If you have a death wish, that is. You could take a walk around the grounds, then, as an alternative, and live to see tomorrow morning. I'd go with you, if you want. You know, you can do anything here. Don't let anything hold you back. Do what you want, no one will expect anything from you, not right not, and not anytime soon. I want you to feel at home. It's big and generally not very personal, but in my wing it is, and my mother's, and you're welcome to find a room in either."

"Christ, Malfoy," laughed Judas into his hands, elbows on the cold stone ledge, with watery eyes.

Draco laughed, lightly, a little embarrassed on being called on his sensitiveness. Judas was still looking at him, but, even still, Draco didn't feel defensive. The eyes were too friendly, too surprisingly _touched_, to have meant anything but awe and understanding. He felt himself shrug a little, because he felt okay enough to do so. "You're pretty much all I have, this summer, and I barely even know you, anymore," he admitted, almost as if assuring Judas that they would be becoming fast friends, once more, while Judas was staying there. But this wasn't any sort of forced declaration, because their bond was so connected that things were already very friendly and easy between them. It was a natural connection, which was nice to have that day, of all times, when he was mourning Harry Potter in his mind. He needed something to keep his mind off of Potter, and having Judas there would probably help them both in the same goal.

"In that case, if I'm all you have, you're all I have, and I need a laugh..."

Draco grinned, as Judas wiped his hands over his eyes, almost like a child, "A laugh?"

Judas stood up, straight, and lightly elbowed Draco, "This speech, what did you have in mind?"

Draco grinned, evilly—but a good evil, of course!—as he stood up, too, "Nothing that mocks Potter, if that's what you mean. I have no intention of saying anything..." and his voice trailed off. It was almost as if something had come along and stolen in. It had just gone away, and he quickly fought to find it, again, because of the very searching, still-same touched look Judas was trying to hide.

"Of course not," Judas agreed. "You want it to be heartfelt. You'd want… something real, then."

"Something real, yes. I could say, as a preface, before reading, to the world, that I'm against Voldemort, his crew, and his efforts, and therefore my words, no matter what tabloids that witch read at the Five and Under says, are true, thoughtful, and meant to be respectful. I would not want to come off like my father, who is obviously delighted. I would like to announce to the world that I am against the man—_thing_—who killed Potter, but I suppose that'd only make him laugh. He would remark that, of course, I had to turn it into something about myself." He flicked at the air, this time, remarkably deadened, inside, and casual about it.

"You're against him?"

Draco shot a long side-eye at him, after the long silence had been interrupted, because that had been entirely too suspicious, as well, and this was the fourth mental notation that he put away on file. Still, though, he ignored it and sighed into his hands, leaning back down on his elbows and letting his eyes lift back up to the sky, "Yes. I hate. I _hate_. He makes me _hate_, but I don't feel as badly as I should, as it's only the person who makes me feel hatred whom I hate."

"Wow," quietly came back at him, again after a distanced and distracted, disembodied silence where Judas had been looking in the complete opposite direction of the gardens than Draco had, who had, this time, watched him, because, well why not? "I'm sorry."

"That's exactly how people would react," Draco told him, and Judas did look back at him, again, and this time with the promise that the attention would stay. Draco dropped one hand, then, at the fact, and breathed out a bit of frustration. "If you looked around tonight, which I'm sure you did, you probably noticed who the people were in the ballroom. All of _his_ supporters, the people who have watched me grow up, and the people whom I've grown up with—yes, I know they are only a few compared to the people, here, tonight, who loved Potter. Even still, I cannot walk out there, even if I wanted to, and tell them all, on an international platform, that I'm against Voldemort, against all of them—I would put my father on blast to those who already know he should be. More importantly, I would make myself a target."

"You would not," Judas hit back with, maybe a bit breathless. "To Voldemort you might be, but not to the rest of the world."

"You say that like it's not something I should be concerned with."

Judas shook his head and squinted out at the forest. He seemed to be struggling to find the right thing to say, but the thing was—he seemed to know exactly what to say… like, perhaps, he'd been thinking about it for a long time. Suddenly, he pushed his chest up a bit more, with his elbows, and told him, "Draco, there are worse things that can happen than telling the world that you're not a supporter of someone like Voldemort." The way he said it made Draco turn away from the windows he was looking out of. The way it was worded did make it seem a little ridiculous. "I know who your father is to Voldemort; so does everyone else. I know who_ you_ are to Voldemort. I know that it would make you a target, but don't you figure that saying nothing will make you more of a target?"

"No, not at all," Draco immediately replied, with a hardened laugh, but not because he was amused or at all unafraid, but because the idea of living past a renouncement of the Malfoy ways was laughable. "If I stay silent, I won't be as big of target. I know it sounds ridiculous—and cowardly—yes, I can see that on your face." Judas didn't go to argue with him, but gave him a look to assure that _yes_, he did have that look on his face. "The only thing I would do, by renouncing it, is make a big mess and get innocent people hurt—my mother, for instance."

"No, you're wrong.

Draco turned around but only met Judas's back, as he was still looking out the window, not comprehending how Judas could tell him he was wrong about that, "How do you figure?"

"Draco, who do you think killed my mother?"

Draco blinked and then opened his mouth to answer. But, then, he fell silent, "I haven't thought about it."

Judas turned around but didn't meet Draco's ever-friendly eyes, as they were foreign to him—very foreign, and he carefully and thoughtfully formulated a memory and spoke it softly, "Don't be a pawn, Draco."

Not offended, yet, Draco shifted his weight, "I'm not a pawn, Judas," he retorted.

"You are being a pawn, Draco. Don't be a pawn. You're_ not_ a pawn. You should know better now."

Draco immediately squinted at him and filed away mental notation number five.

Judas turned away from him and started walking for the door. Alarmed, and suddenly very confused about why Judas had looked at him this certain way and having it suddenly send chills up and down his own spine, quite reminiscent of the way Harry Potter used to affect him, he followed a few feet behind the young man, watching him with narrowed, panicked eyes. Something was not right in Judas's words, "I'm not a pawn," he spoke, loudly, and it came across sharply, almost like a knife skidding across the floor beneath them. He was not a pawn. He wouldn't be a pawn.

Judas turned around, about ten feet from the door, "I know you're not. Don't act like one."

"I'm not acting like a pawn. Frankly, since you keep overtly throwing the word in my face and telling me I am not one, I'd like you to go ahead and explain yourself—your reasoning, even—as to why you keep insisting that I'm _acting _like one."

Judas blinked a couple of times, hesitant.

Draco, with his hands on his sides, annoyed with the silence and reluctance, and with mental notation six quickly filed away, stepped forward, "Well?"

"You know why I called you a pawn. _Frankly_, you won't become something, because you're afraid—"

"Become _what_?" Draco asked, immediately, before something else could arise in the conversation.

"Nothing, Draco! You won't become anything, EVER, if you refuse to renounce Voldemort to anyone but your father who does not give a damn what you say anyway! _Pawn_!"

"I am not afraid of Voldemort!" Draco retorted, loudly, but inside, he was quivering at the words. Fuck. Judas had made him say it that way, loudly, so the name thundered around them, because whenever Draco had said it, it had been very quiet. Judas had clearly noticed this, as well. It was purposely, too, in some way. Judas just stared at him, knowingly, now, even as Draco narrowed his eyes at himself for having just bellowed the name. He did hate the name. It did scare him. He was still afraid he was going to turn around and _POOF, there Voldemort would be_, like a genie summoned by name.

Judas had been waiting for him to say it, or something like it, but he knew that Judas knew that he wasn't _not _afraid of Voldemort. Like the brunette had said before, Draco grew up being taught that Voldemort was his future, his destiny, and he had seen people try and escape it, and those people had either disappeared or they'd been destroyed into nothingness by their families and friends and pushed far, far away from his society's status. Therefore, Judas had a point. Draco had no reason to argue with him, or even deny him, so he just threw him a look, "Okay, _fuck you_, because fine. Fine. Fuck you, I do fear him, because I love my parents, and I don't want them to be targets. I don't fear him for what he'd do to me."

"Draco! Merlin, you are so dense," Judas laughed, out of no where, and Draco stared at him like he was mad, and, this time, he was serious. This was not the Judas he'd just been talking to the few minutes before. As he approached Draco, and then wrapped both of his hands around Draco's elbows, because his arms were at his sides and stagnant there, and gave him a slight shake, as if Draco could suddenly snap out of some state. But Draco wasn't in a state! He didn't understand what Judas was trying to say to him. He heard him, but he didn't understand the way he thought it was easy as pie to renounce Voldemort to Voldemort and come away without someone having been directly hurt and more indirectly hurt—important people whom he loved, no less!

"Voldemort is _nothing_ without your father, you prat. He can do nothing without him, now! If you publicly announced that you didn't support him, he wouldn't kill you! If he touched you, _your father would kill him_. Why do you think that you're _still_ safe, Draco, because, last I heard, you're the oldest young-generation member to not have been forced to take The Dark Mark? He'd try to pull you back in. Your parents would not be targets. You would be, perhaps, but he wouldn't kill you. Your father is _not_ replaceable to Voldemort, and if something happened to your father, thereafter, the world would know what happened and who did it. All it takes is ONE person, and you're always going to be too fucking AFRAID to be that one person!"

"What do you mean ALWAYS? It's one damn time! You're so fucking insane, Cliffdale!"

"No, listen!" Judas insisted, giving him another shake. "_Harry Potter_ was murdered this morning."

"What does that have to do with me saying I don't support Voldemort?"

"Everything," Judas almost cried and gave him a hard, rough shake, and he looked nearly like he was ready to hit Draco. Really hard. "You've been brought up FEARING this man. He's a MAN! Draco, if your mother was murdered, and your brother, and your best friend, and your best friend's family all within two weeks, and your little sister watched, with you, as someone sliced a curse through your mother, you would UNDERSTAND that there ARE worse things than Voldemort! DEATH, Draco, once it happens to you, you die, inside, and it doesn't fucking matter what is good and what is evil and what will harm you and what won't. He's EVIL, Draco! EVIL! He wants to kill. _Innocent people_! And, when you say nothing, out of_ fear_, you're encouraging him! If he murders you, the entire world will rise up against him, against your father, and he NEEDS your father's influence as the Minister. God, why am I even trying? You're brainwashed. You always have been!"

MENTAL NOTATION SEVEN! EIGHT! _AND_ NINE!

"And you're trying to force me into saying something I'm not sure I agree with!"

"So, then, you do support him?" Judas asked, backing away, his hands thrown up in the air in frustration.

Draco's head was in a million places, "No, but...! But..." But what? He stopped, blinked, and then coughed.

"Forget I said anything. I thought you were serious about a speech, about making sure it mattered."

"I am."

"Obviously not, if you support the man who killed Harry Potter enough to shrug and let it happen to someone else."

Draco's eyes finally started to narrow, angrily, and he seethed this time "_I don't support him_,_ Cliffdale_."

Judas turned away, darkly, and walked, slowly, toward the windows, before he growled, "Pawn."

Draco watched him, "Why do you want me to say it, Judas? The word."

"Your father."

"What about my father?"

Judas turned around, "I want to see what his face is like when he loses a loved one over a _few words_, and perhaps everyone else would like to see what kind of man he really is."

Draco closed his left eye, then his right, and then opened both, at the mention of his father. When he lost a loved one? Draco, however furious and angry with his father, was not ready to let his father out of his life. This was one other reason he would not renounce publicly, not yet. He loved his father, whether or not he admitted it. He'd die for his father, without a doubt. It was true loyalty, and Draco knew that, deep down, his father had the same loyalty to Draco, and if Draco did renounce, he knew his father would not send him away in shame, or renounce him, but rather, he'd push Draco away. It was true that while all of Draco's friends had been inducted and introduced to the Death Eater's inner circle at an earlier age, his father had never forced him. When his father had cornered him on it, and Draco lit things on fire to put off the conversations, his father had not been angry. He had never pushed Draco into it. He hadn't EVER insisted that Draco be in the circle, though it had always been implied. It was certainly obvious to his father that Draco hadn't wanted to pledge.

Slowly, Draco stepped forward, feeling his heart thud with remorse of Judas's wish. It was a cruel wish, seeing as he had just lost his mother and brother, "Why would you want to see that?"

"Because he never got to see my face."

"Why would you even care if he saw your face?"

Judas looked at him, strangely, but then looked away, "No reason. I suppose I'm just twisted."

"Up until you said that, I was following everything you were saying. Wait a moment; where are you going?"

"I don't know, but I don't want to be around you anymore."

Draco's lips slowly parted open. He felt the punch on his heart, "What did _I_ do?"

Judas looked back at him, once, before he opened the door. He walked out, closing the door behind him.

It was sometime later that night, about an hour later, maybe, that Draco took a seat beside Judas, who was sitting next to his mother, at one of the many round dining tables covered by elegant silk, candleholders, an array of dishes, and eight utensils. He had, admitted, calmed down, at first, but then at watched, from the back of the room, for about forty-five minutes, as Judas and his mother had talked. The affection that came out of his mother amazed even Draco. There were people all over trying to see Judas, or trying to peek at him—even speak with him—but she would shoo them all away and scold them. There were times when he had had his face hidden with his hands, and Draco had been sad to know it'd probably been because he'd been crying, especially by the way his mother had rubbed Judas's back during these moments. But, Draco, no matter how hurt and offended he was by the conversation he had had with Judas, last, still hadn't a resentment towards him.

At the table with Draco's family, and Judas, would be the Zabinis. Why? Who knew; they weren't entitled.

At long last, everyone took their seats and Lucius stood up and walked towards the front of the room.

Draco grinned as Blaise slid into the seat next to him, carelessly, not really paying attention to the unfamiliar guest at the table. It appeared as though he hadn't seen Judas, which had been okay and understandable, because Judas was so darkly intense that just looking at him was depressing, Draco had to admit.

"Where've you been?" Draco whispered, though he and Blaise were supposed to be mad at each other. Though Draco was furious with him, it was hard to try and just forget his best friend in a matter of, oh, _four or five hours_. It was hard to stop caring. Impossible, really.

"Talking with Goyle. We had our first assignment last night," he said, stiffly, and did not look at Draco.

"Yes, my father told me a few minutes ago. I was surprised that you hadn't mentioned it earlier, but I understand, now, why you got so mad," he admitted. If Blaise had already done his first assignment, hearing Draco talking about getting out, about not pledging, had probably made him want to throw Draco out a window. "He was with you?"

"Mmm," Blaise agreed, but he kept his eyes down on his plate as he put his napkin in his lap

Awkwardly, Draco squinted at his friend's profile as the room darkened into shadows and spotlights, and then the contours on his face were lost, "It was nothing bad, was it?"

Blaise looked at him, and immediately it was as if he was begging Draco not to ask about it. Feeling sick to his stomach, Draco had to turn his head away. There he was, that morning, talking about how he hated his father, and Voldemort, and Blaise was thriving under their lead. Feeling shaky at the fact that, yeah, it'd probably been bad, as it'd been his first mission to prove his loyalty, of all things. Draco turned his eyes away from Blaise, shaking his head. His father had told him that he had been with Blaise on his first assignment. Apparently, or so it had always been legend, first assignments were never killings, at least that was the official "line," his father had always told him, but when he had asked his father if, really, it was the first assignment, he hadn't gotten the response he'd wanted.

"Tonight… we come together from all corners of the earth: here in the ballroom, in living rooms where families are crowded around and afraid, in churches, even, and schools set up as temporary housing for those of us who've lost our homes. We come together not just for the annual Minister's Ball, but we gather here, tonight, to face the brave new challenges we face, and to say, in the face of those who push us further down and pick apart out differences, that we are all really one in the same. In light of the tragic news… the… tragic," and the Secretary's voice cracked, genuinely, before continuing, "news of the passing of Harry Potter, the Minister of Magic would like to share some words before we begin to discuss the issues at hand."

Draco's eyes lifted up, knowing the Wireless Press Conference had just started. He turned his eyes to Judas, who was looking up at the ceiling, idly. Past Judas, he saw his mother look up, too, as if searching to see something that Judas might have been looking at. But the only thing on the ceilings were the paintings, paintings she had examined thousands of times before, and with him, too, when she'd been rocking him to sleep as a child. Draco leaned a bit closer to Judas, then, too, out of curiosity, and asked, "What are you looking at?"

Judas didn't answer, just finally brought his eyes down and settled his attention onto Draco.

Draco looked away, slightly entertained with the silent game. From the distance, he saw his father looking right at their table, and right at himself, Judas, and then Blaise. He was still being introduced, but it was clear, by his frantic eyes, that something was going on somewhere. Draco looked over both of his shoulders for any signs of trouble, but he found nothing. His father was an expert in public speaking, so it was not nervousness or anxiety—he did Press Conferences every day, from many countries, no less! So his eyes settled back on his mother, to ask her if she knew what was wrong with his father, but, instead, his eyes just happened to catch sight of Judas. The young man was slowly moving closer to the table, just barely, his eyes darkly and lethally ignited, his dark eyebrows narrowed. His mouth was twisted. He was looking right at Blaise. Draco quickly looked back at Blaise and elbowed him.

Blaise looked back at Draco, clutching his arm, as if to say, "Ouch, you bastard!" but his semi-smile went limp, and the rest of his body—muscles, skin, everything—seemed to follow.

Draco looked back at his father, who was running his hand thought his hair, clearly panicked at the situation which, yeah, apparently was at their table? He quickly looked back at Judas, his own eyes panicked, because he was between them and had no idea what was going on. His eyes flew between Judas and Blaise. When attention started to come to the table, Draco saw a few fellow Death Eaters begin to raise up from their seats, but then sit down, and then stand, again. Looking back at his father, once more, for answers—guidance, even!—his father was hurrying down the steps, after having held a hand up to tell the Secretary to delay introducing him, and dashing out of the spotlight.

Draco swallowed a hard lump in his throat as a very long, very lean, spotless wand crossed in front of his face, right under his nose. It was steady, and didn't shake a millimeter that he saw. His eyes shifted to the left, to Judas, feeling his veins quiver. This was not good. No. He could feel the fury in the wand. Everyone at the table was staring at Judas, too, he saw, as his eyes lifted from where they were staring straight down his nose at the sleek wand.

It was completely silent at the table.

Draco's eyes shifted to the right, finally, to Blaise, who was staring at Judas—or rather, the end of his wand, maybe—with widened, pale, deadened eyes. _Oh_, Draco realized. _Oh_.

Draco moved his head back, then, finally to get out of the way of the wand, and pushed his back all of the way to the back of his chair, swallowing, and looked at Blaise, fully, hardly allowing himself to breathe.

Judas stood up, and the sound of his chair being pushed back was the only noise in the entire room, now, as even the Secretary had fallen silent in attempt to stall. There was clearly a situation, here, and nearly all Ministry officials, who'd even bothered to attend, that night, stood on their feet, nearly at once, and pointed at the table, and, in fact, Judas.

His wand was pointed, perfectly immobilized and positioned, at Blaise, and Draco swore that he could hear the blood pulsing through Judas's body—perhaps it was blood in his own ears, though. Past the tip of the wand, Draco saw his father running his hands through his hair, while two or three Death Eaters had joined him, but kept a distance, as they all flocked toward the table. His father demanded that the network be shut off, and Draco knew it was more of a threat than a command. But his father stopped, ten feet away, and Draco could hardly believe it when his father tensely wrung his hands together. Draco's head shot to Judas's form, and he stared.

Judas's eyes did not budge from Blaise, nor did his wand. He just asked, "Is this your family?" Blaise's family.

"Judas, what are you doing?" Narcissa could barely manage, about to cry, clearly.

The tip of Judas's wand was glowing red, a trademark Cliffdale killing preconception that hit the wand before the spell was cast. It had been legend, but no one had every really seen it. It wasn't myth anymore; that was for damn sure. Draco felt himself inching back, as quietly as he could, in his chair, and saw that everyone else had been doing the same.

Judas, ignoring Narcissa, asked, "What's your name?" There was no answer. "Draco, what's his name?"

Draco gaped at him, but he did not give him his answer, but asked, instead, the obvious, "What are you _doing_?"

"I swear on your mother, Draco," Judas exploded, "_if you don't give me his name_!"

Draco blinked, "Blaise."

Narcissa covered her face.

Judas still didn't even so much as blink away from Blaise's eyes, "Blaise, is this your mother?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, your mother. Do you love her a lot?"

Draco looked at his own mother, as if for instruction on what they should do. She was crying, both of her hands over her mouth, and she was looking at Lucius to intervene, as was most everyone else, but Lucius was still staring at Judas, and his eyes were latched onto the tip of Judas's brightly glowing wand. Draco, at first, did not understand why no one had yet to Stun him, but… then he saw it. An orange light was slowly becoming larger, pulsating over and over, hard. Perhaps the wand was conveying the pounding, aching beats of Judas's obviously already tortured _soul_. Slowly, Draco's eyes lowered, because it was starting to make sense. Why wasn't his father doing anything? Why was... why was Judas pointing his wand at Blaise, and why was he asking about Blaise's mother? Suddenly, the wand moved, and Judas pointed it right at Blaise's mother, who gasped, her eyes about to bulge out of her head.

Draco looked at Blaise, immediately, feeling disbelief. No, no. No, it couldn't. God, no... just... no.

"Is your son a fine man, Misses?"

"Zabini," Draco aided Judas without a second thought, staring at Blaise like he did not know him.

"Is your son a fine man, Misses Zabini?" Judas asked, loudly, his voice hardened.

Blaise's mother nodded her head up and down, her eyes so widened with tears. She was too terrified to speak.

Judas suddenly moved behind Draco, quick as a fox. Draco watched as he walked behind Blaise, who was shaking, and then past Blaise's little sister, and then stood between the sister and Blaise's mother. He leaned down, a small bit, the wand pressed down the shoulders of Blaise's mother and toward her dress-covered lap. He looked at the little sister, "You know, I have a little sister your age," he said, quietly. She was crying. "Don't cry. You have nothing to cry about. I would not hurt you, nor your mother," he whispered, getting very close to her face. Her little eyes and cute little face were so terrified. He turned away from her, because she was so scared, and it clearly affected him. He, then, looked back at Blaise's mother, and kissed her cheek, as if, somehow, to apologize for what her son had done to _him_. "Your son murdered my mother," he whispered, then, in her ear.

Draco covered his mouth with his left hand, because he'd been close enough to hear.

Blaise's mother sobbed out, but then covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Tears fell down her cheeks.

"Don't do it, Judas," Draco blurted out, standing up. "Don't do it, she's innocent."

"That's funny," Judas whispered, back, still looking at Blaise's mother. "My mother was innocent, too."

Blaise suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. Judas's wand was pushed against his throat within seconds, and he was pinned down on the table before he even so much as had his hand by his pocketed wand, and Draco almost felt the need to laugh at how bad his reflexes were. Within those few seconds, Blaise's mother had grabbed Blaise's two sisters and pushed them into the crowd, and Blaise's father tried to push her away, too, but she wouldn't go. She was shrieking right beside the table. No one was seated, now, in the entire ballroom. Yet, no one had approached the situation, not even security wizards, even though they were all standing right _there_.

"Judas," whispered Narcissa, very quietly, "your mother would not want this."

"With all do respect, Misses Malfoy, you hardly knew my mother after you turned your back on her."

Draco watched as his mother's eyes welled with tears, and she looked back at Lucius, furious.

"I'm not going to kill you right here," Judas hissed, nose to nose with the frigid Blaise. "But I _will_ kill you."

"He killed your mother; he deserves to die. If you don't kill him, I will."

"DRACO!" Narcissa and Blaise said at the same time, and Draco heard Lucius's gasp trailing theirs.

Draco just stood beside Judas, staring down at Blaise, in disgust, because… because… he killed someone's mum! Someone's _mum_! Someone's mum who had never even done anything to him! An innocent woman! A life—gone! And he'd _done_ it, "How could you?" He whispered, almost crying. "How could you kill someone's mother?" He asked, leaning down to be closer to Blaise, watching Blaise's eyes spring tears. He hadn't been able to look at Judas, and he had been staring up at the ceiling, his whole chest pounding, and everyone could see it. Now, though, his breath was quickening as Draco neared him. "What'd you do to her?"

"He didn't kill my mother," Judas whispered, staring down at Blaise, who was still silent, "He helped, but he didn't kill her. He killed my brother."

Draco turned to him and scowled, about ready to punch him, "I thought he killed your mother."

Judas let go of Blaise, completely, and backed away from the table. Blaise immediately scrambled off of the table and landed on the floor. Though he wasn't hurt, he didn't move. He had no where to go. He could run, but he knew if he ran, Judas would attack him. On the floor, Draco watched, along with Judas, as Blaise's body shook furiously. He was sobbing, silently, having pulled the arm of his dress robes over his head. He looked pathetic, like a crying child. Draco's eyes slowly lifted to Judas, watching him as he allowed Blaise's mother to go to him, down on the ground, with her arms, and wrap them around him. Still, Judas didn't move, nor did he point his wand. He looked back up at the ceiling, and, Draco, too, because what was so goddamn important that he kept looking up there for, "If you saw who killed your brother, then you probably saw… _who_ killed your mother?"

Judas's eyes found him, almost dazedly, "Please don't be a pawn, Draco."

"I'm not being a pawn."

Draco followed Judas's eyes, however, a few hesitant seconds later.

The eyes led him right to his father.

The memory hit him. When they had been young, they'd had a motto. _Every son is a pawn of his father._

Draco was left staring at his father, not having been prepared for what he'd just suddenly been informed of at the same time as he set his eyes on those that were suddenly staring right back at him. He grabbed for his wand, in his pocket, and once he had it in his hand, he—lost it. It was gone. He looked beside him to see that Judas was holding it—holding it away from him, no less like a toy. His left hand, on instinct, grasped for it, but Judas pulled it out of reach, silently, and with an edge of patience.

Draco watched, in awe, as Judas pocketed his wand, pointedly, and turned away. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the dark crowd. The crowd seemed to split in half, but he had already merged in with the people, and wherever he seemed to show up, by the time the crowd was done parting for him, scared and terrified of him or what he was angry enough to do, that they'd heard and could empathize with, he had already moved on and was lost to sight.

Draco, however, without his wand, and left in complete and utter shock of what had just happened, turned his eyes back to his father, who was watching him, too, but… differently. Differently, yes, because everything about his father was now _different_. His father had killed Maureen Cliffdale?

As his father started to approach him, Draco began to step backwards, shaking. His cool was gone.

It was at that very moment that Draco knew his father realized that Draco _knew_.

Lucius stopped, "Draco," he said, softly, in the silence of the huge room. "_Draco_."

Draco continued to take heavy, dazed steps backwards, staring at the mass that was his father. He turned, then, into the crowd, and darted between so many people that his head spun, but it'd already been dizzy. When he got to the entry doors, he was met by a body that hurled beside his and helped him burst the entrance doors to an open, letting in streaming light to the ballroom from the cheerful, brightly lit entrance room of the estate. He turned to his left, as they headed for the stairs, at a run. He said nothing to Judas. Why was Judas Cliffdale so familiar? Why did he seem like he wasn't Judas Cliffdale? Why, when he spoke a certain way, did it sound forced? Why, when standing in the presence of the two men who'd killed two of his closest family members, had he been able to keep _that_ cool? No one was that practiced, not even a Cliffdale.

God, his father had killed Judas's mother. How had Judas even been able to contain himself before? That was why his father had been so hesitant to acknowledge Judas. He must not have known that Judas had seen the whole thing from under the invisibility cloak. He knew, now, that Judas had seen, somehow. Furious, Draco stormed up the first five stairs. His left palm burst open, expectantly, "I want my wand."

"I'm not giving it to you until you calm down."

"You're fucking insane. You should WANT my father dead. And it's my wand; give it to me!"

"I don't want your father dead," Judas laughed, as they hurried toward Draco's room. "I want Voldemort."

Draco turned around to him, finally, and shoved him, frustrated, and just blurted out something he knew of which's reaction to would make or break Mental Notation Number Nine, "No one can kill him, not even Potter could."

They looked at each other.

Draco set his eyes firm, indignant.

Judas leaned in very close, out of nowhere, and grasped the sides of Draco's face in his fingertips, but with such a softness that it left Draco feeling drained. Draco did nothing and said nothing, staring at him through familiar silver-gray eyes, and he did not offer anything to stop Judas. Judas's arms rested beside each of Draco's shoulders, his hands moving, instead, to grasp Draco's finely slicked silk strings of hair, right behind his ears, the bump of his thumbs settling comfortably under the angle of Draco's jaws directly under his ears. His nose pressed against the side of Draco's, and he nuzzled it, just to make sure Draco was still alive, staring eye to eye with him. He watched Draco's eyes enlarge, finally, in disbelief, like he had never seen before, not once in seven years of seeing him every day. He then pressed his lips right against Draco's ear, his arms tightly squeezing Draco between them, because who knew who could be listening or who could be using an upstairs bathroom and therefore privy to hear things no one was supposed to know. His nose pressed right below Draco's temple. It had to be quiet, almost non-existent.

For a long moment, it was silent, as Draco's hand grasped the back of his neck, very hard, too, and squeezed.

"I _am_ Potter."

The response was a very tight hand leaving his neck, and a very tight arm wrapping around his shoulders, instead. Like earlier in the day, Draco's large hand opened up, and then tightly fisted over Harry's shoulder. Draco didn't have to be convinced—Mental Notation number ten was just the admission period. There was a reason Draco had felt so connected with Judas when he'd known little about Judas. It hadn't been a normal bond. It had been more natural, more deep. There had been more there, soul to soul, but he hadn't chalked it up to be anything out of the ordinary. It had explained the look of shock when he had talked about not hating Potter, about being miserable about Potter being gone, about how if he made a speech, it wouldn't be to mock Potter. It explained the way that Judas always sounded so forced, to Draco, when he was speaking, like it wasn't natural to Judas, though Draco damn well knew Judas Cliffdale spoke very properly. And he'd been right. Harry wasn't formal with his words, no matter how hard he tried. He had always been quite relaxed conversation-wise, and he'd given up being proper, with Draco, as Judas, a couple of minutes after being reintroduced to Draco. It explained so much, indeed, like why he had been so uncertain of the "pawn" thing, like he had somehow gotten it wrong when, really, it'd been Draco who hadn't remembered.

And as they had stood there, eye to eye, the brown eyes of Judas Cliffdale had lowered, and then risen as the familiar green eyes of Harry Potter, but only in Draco's head. Very, very familiar green eyes, indeed, that he had never seen up close. He said nothing, and he didn't want to. He couldn't. He couldn't acknowledge it, which was obvious, by the way he'd been told. There were a million questions that Draco had, but there he was, without one question to blurt out, because none of them were more important than the fact that he was squeezing the God-damned life out of Harry fucking Potter. Fuck, he had never been so happy to hug one person in his entire life, either, and he didn't even know what to do with himself.

"Where _is_ Judas?" Draco asked, against his ear, with his hand cupped around it, barely even hearing himself.

"It's… _complicated_, but he's with Dumbledore." He paused. Neither knew what to say, now. "Everything is true—Blaise, Maureen, Lucius... it's all true."

Neither of them moved for a long time. It was scarier, now, that the truth was out. Very, very, very scary.

"Boys," came Narcissa's voice, timidly, from down the hall, and it was so soft, like she was sorry to interrupt, like she figured they must have been having a heart-to-heart or something.

Harry was the first to pull away, but he didn't do so with haste. It had not been a particular relief to share the secret, but it had not been out of the question going into the situation, either. He had a part to play, and he had to play it for as long as he needed to. He couldn't let anyone else find out. He was allowed to tell Draco, if he felt that he could trust Draco, which he had been sure he never could have before. But, he did. For some Godly reason, that Harry did not yet know, he trusted Draco Malfoy with the secret that would throw every person in their world into dangerous territory and up in arms. It was a secret that would harm everyone close to Draco and everyone close to Harry, but it was best that Draco knew what was at stake for his family. "I have to leave."

Draco's eyes were heavy, as he watched Harry, "I'm so sorry about your mother." It had just spewed out of his mouth before he could stop it!

Harry turned around, slowly, and met Draco's eyes, vulnerably, for the first time, "What?"

"Your mother, I—I never got the chance to tell you. I know things, er—for whatever reason, I haven't been able to know you in recent years… you lost your mother, and I'm sorry."

Draco had told Harry, or Judas, that he was sorry for his loss, but Draco had never told Harry that he was sorry for the loss of his mother. Well, now he had.

Harry, not sure what to say in the presence of Narcissa—or even at all, really—when he was supposed to be trying to figure out what to do, just nodded his head, in a thankful way. Everything during the last day and a half had been more clouded, more foggy, and more of a lie than anything had ever been, and that was so much of an understatement that knew not to bother trying to understand it all just yet. He had more important things to worry about, and reflection had to be saved for a later time, place, and date. So much had happened, and it had all happened very quickly.

It really had not been supposed to be like this. There hadn't been supposed to be a sort of… _invisible bond_ between them, but it was there. Of all of the things in the last day or two that could have surprised him, hearing Draco Malfoy give him his condolences about Lily Potter, his real mother, was easily the most rewarding thing to be told, because it was based on something real. Though, Draco Malfoy hugging him, rather than punching or hexing him, at the news, had turned out to be quite the relief of surprise, too. He had known Malfoy was onto him, which was, perhaps, why he hadn't flipped out. He seemed to know Potter mannerisms better than he knew most anything. Harry hadn't tried very well to keep it secret, either.

"Come on, now, Judas! Please don't leave. Where—where would you go?" Narcissa followed him down the hallway, hurriedly, a mess.

Draco followed them, half-smiling for himself and half-pitying his mother for not knowing the truth.

"Mother, you can't honestly expect him to stay here!" Draco urged, strongly, catching up to her.

Narcissa turned around, "Why? This is the safest place for him. I promised his mother, Draco, remember?"

Draco saw Harry clutch his hands over his face, behind his mother. It was obvious, now, for the first time, that Harry felt like he was going to hell for lying like this. Potter, of all people, having to LIE about EVERYTHING? Oh, it was too much! The joke potential was endless! But no, because Draco knew it must have been painful to be putting on someone else's life when… when… well, where was Harry Potter's body? The truth was, Maureen Cliffdale really had died, and so had Alex Cliffdale.

Turning his eyes away from Harry, Draco looked into his mother's eyes and saw that she had not realized the truth about Lucius having killed Maureen. Then, again, it hadn't been announced, and when he and Harry had been talking, before Harry had led Draco's eyes to his father, as the guilty party, it had been quiet and no one else had known what they'd been talking about or how Draco had found out. Oh, _no_. He couldn't do this. He couldn't look at his mother... and tell her that... her... _husband_… was the one who had killed Maureen, her childhood best friend, and her life's best friend, even after they had stopped talking so much. Oh, God, no, he couldn't. He couldn't. He had to? He had to make sure she was safe. Being there, now, was not safe.

"Mother," Draco started, under his breath, in a very hesitant tone, "there's, um, something you should—something you _need_ to know."

Narcissa looked back at Harry, worriedly, "Can it wait, Draco?"

"Uh, not really," Draco then stepped to the right, as she went to turn around, and succeeded in holding her attention so she didn't complete her turn. When he looked back down the hallway, Harry was already about thirty feet away and quickly approaching his bedroom. What! Harry Potter was heading toward his bedroom. Feeling like he was in an alternate universe, or had fallen asleep in a strange dream, thrown and relieved of some of the truths that turned out to be lies, that day, he calmly outstretched his hands. "Mother, I don't really know how to tell you this, and I don't really think we should be standing when I do."

"Draco, would you please just tell me? Judas needs us right now."

Draco breathed, painfully, through clenched teeth. Oh, this was awful, "It's about Maureen."

"What about her?" Narcissa asked, her eyes still warmly on Draco. She was very worried about Judas.

Draco took her hands in his, "It was father."

Narcissa blinked, "What was Lucius?"

Draco choked on the words. She wasn't even putting it together. "Maureen. It was Lucius."

"Draco, what are you saying?"

Draco cleared his throat, staring into her eyes, worriedly, "Lucius... was out all night?"

"Yes, he had a business meeting," Narcissa replied, searching Draco hurriedly for answers.

Draco tilted his face down a little, heart dropping to his toes, as he replied, "Yes, with _Blaise_, on assignment."

"Blaise ended up... last night he... the... Maureen... Lucius was out with Blaise. _Oh_."

Draco watched her eyes flush over with pain, "Mum," he said, under his breath, though with a big of demand, "_breathe_."

"Oh—oh my… _God—_I! Oh, Merlin, _oh_ NO," she cried, loudly, her hands shaking over her mouth, having pulled right out of Draco's protective and anxious hands. She turned away and started to take steps down the hallway. Draco hurried right after her, as she shook, crying out, in shrieks, words that Draco couldn't even understand, and parts of stories about Maureen that she couldn't finish. It was all a bunch of gibberish as she ranted down the hallway until she reached the front steps. Too afraid to stop her when she was like this, because she was too powerful to hold back, he carefully trailed her down the front entry staircase. But once they were halfway down, his father appeared at the bottom.

Inhaling his breath, quickly, Draco hurried in front of his mother, as she stopped.

The crying had stopped, too.

Lucius stepped up one step, his eyes large with honest worry, "Narcissa, what is it?"

"_It was you_!"

Draco didn't stop it. He couldn't. It was bound to happen.

"What?"

"You," Narcissa repeated, loudly, bypassing Draco, and hurried down the steps like a steam engine on the move.

Draco watched, his mouth falling open, as his mother opened her palm and knocked his father right off of the first couple of stairs. He, then, landed on the floor. She hurried right back up the stairs, screaming her head off, even in front of all of the guests, about hating him, his whore of a mistress, hating the way he ate, hating the way he spoke, hating the way he hated everyone in the world unless he was getting something from them. She didn't stop ranting until she had passed Draco on the steps and was storming furiously past the huge balcony, while people stared up at her, completely flabbergasted, as she screamed about divorce and hating his mother more than she hated having sex with him, which, apparently, was quite a lot. Not that Draco really needed to be hearing about the sex life of his parents...

However, she stopped, and looked back at Lucius, who was still laying on the floor, on his elbows, his hand resting over his cheek, while his mistress was sitting beside him, shrieking for help, which was crowded around him in the form of security wizards. Yet he did not look away from Narcissa, not even for one second. He pushed away his mistress and the help surrounding him and scuffled back to his feet, though disheveled and unsettled. He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, "Narcissa, I swear on my life!"

"Your life is NOTHING to me, Lucius! I'm going to Dumbledore."

"Narcissa, don't you dare," Lucius demanded at her words.

Draco stepped in front of him, standing one step above him. His father met his eyes, but Draco looked away, "You're not going to follow her," he assured, without looking at his father, too appalled to do so—oh, and terrified, too. He had his hands behind his back, though, coolly. But, really, he was just protecting himself, and his hands seemed best served behind him. If they were in front of him, he would have been able to do something out of the heat of the moment, and he didn't feel like having the press getting pictures of the Minister's son strangling him or trying to push him down the stairs. "She will kill you, you know, if you try to go after her. She has the motive, the talent, and the skills."

Lucius didn't look at him, just down at the stairs, "Draco, I don't want to hurt you. Please, move."

"You won't hurt Draco," responded a voice from the top of the stairs. "If you do, everyone will see."

This time, Lucius took three steps down, quickly, while Draco stepped aside, "Don't do anything rash."

Harry took a step downward, pulling out his wand. He handed Draco's over to him, without a word.

"Gee, thanks," Draco replied, bitterly. Harry Potter had taken his wand from him as if he were a child! At least he had given it back.

Harry ignored him, "Do anything rash?" He asked back, at Lucius, who had pulled his own wand out. Harry's eyes glazed over with anger. The last time he had seen Lucius with a wand was the last time he had seen Sirius. In fact, the last time he had seen Lucius with a wand was the last time he had even seen Lucius prior to that day. After all, for a few months, Lucius had been in Azkaban. Of course, that was only before the dementors had freed the prison—whoever said their World wasn't corrupt clearly didn't understand the significance of having a Prisoner of Azkaban becoming the Minister of Magic a few months later. "No; I'd rather duel you."

"I don't duel with Cliffdales."

Draco watched as Harry stopped about five steps down. Ten steps separated the two men whose wands were pulled out and pointed at each other. He knew how his father stood when he dueled, and he looked ready to attack, or he at least looked like he was on the defensive in case a hex was tossed at him. But Harry, Draco recalled, funnily enough, had been an excellent dueling partner in second year AND a brilliant one in sixth year. He had dueled with Harry until they'd both been bruised and beaten, battered and bitter.

Unsuccessfully, though he had never told anyone, he had never beaten Harry at a duel… and had never come close to even saying it could have been a draw, either. Harry was an excellent dueler, as was Draco's father. Nervously, Draco stood and watched from the balcony as Harry spun his wand in his fingers. But he did it so smoothly and coolly that it just looked like the right thing to do. It spun right into his palm and was instantly pointed, dead-set, on Lucius.

"Why not?" Harry asked, interested.

"I dare say it's not fair—too many unknown hexes."

"I want to duel you to the death, Lucius Malfoy. I have no doubts I will succeed without any unknown hexes."

"You've never seen me duel, son."

Son? Harry grimaced and took one step down, "I know how Malfoys duel. Legend."

"Did you read it in a book, then?"

"Don't flatter yourself, you're not in any worthwhile books at my estate."

"_Your_ estate? You're just a little boy living under your father's namesake."

Harry grinned, "You've obviously never seen me duel. Ask your son, he knows. Remember his scar?"

Lucius glanced at Draco, and then at Harry, his hand slightly faltering, "The face scar?"

"I put him in Crucio when we were four," he recalled what he'd learned, and he hurried down four other steps, towering over Lucius's figure in shadows that sprinkled the walls, their figures tall and lanky, deep in color and an aqua-hued black outline. Actually, it was true. Judas had put Draco under Crucio, though it had been extremely weak and tickled more than hurt. Draco had broken out of it in a fit of giggles, or so Judas had told him the morning before. "Then, when we were running away so you wouldn't find us dueling, Draco tripped over that snake statue of yours and smashed open his lip. I remember how mad you were that your statue was broken. There was blood everywhere, and all you cared about was that damn statue. Draco hated you for it."

"That's not true."

"It is true. He knew it then. He would always be second to Voldemort."

"Don't you say that name when talking about Draco," Lucius hissed at him, taking two steps up, quickly.

Harry, inwardly impressed and surprised, took another step down, "Draco hates Voldemort."

Lucius's eyes turned into slits of anger, and he threw his wand forward, "Don't."

Harry took one more step down and pointed his wand right back at Lucius, "You don't like hearing how much you've ruined your family."

"I'd advise you to hush your smart mouth, and sooner than later."

"I'd advise you to stop pretending I give a shit what you have to advise! You help _kill _innocent people and except your family to turn the other cheek? There, I said it—_someone _said it, everyone _knows_ it—and now no one has to be afraid to admit it to themselves." His voice boomed through the silent, grand, beautifully shocked room a few seconds later, as he pointed his wand at Lucius. "MURDERER!"

When his eyes returned to Lucius's, from Lucius's still-immobile and inactive wand, he couldn't help but notice that something had burned Lucius's eyes to a close. For a long moment, he wondered when the hex would hit him, but Lucius's hand fell to his side, as did his wand. His eyes slowly reopened, and he started up the rest of the steps. Harry stepped aside while Lucius passed, silently, his shoes shuffling, loudly. It was all done. Harry had said it. In front of everyone. And, Lucius had not denied it. No, he had not.

Harry knew it was all too good to be true, so when he turned around, Lucius's wand was pointed at him.

Harry looked away, silently.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Harry turned his eyes back to the older man, who had the wand pressed to his throat, "When was that? You never had the chance," he laughed, but then stopped, immediately, when he saw the flash of anger shine through the nearly white eyes. They were so angry that the red from his broken blood vessels was more overpowering than his actual eye color. He lightly pressed the tip of his own wand against Lucius's leg and couldn't help but give a smile, just because. "Out of curiosity, could you tell me? Who killed Harry Potter?"

Lucius didn't hesitate as he said, "Voldemort," and his lips twisted into a smile.

Harry smiled back, but wryly, feeling liberated, "Oh, so close," he whispered, but then shoved his wand against Lucius's stomach. Lucius froze at the hard shove, giving Harry a chance to hop up the next step and stand eye-to-eye with the man. "He's standing in front of you," he whispered, "and you dare lie to him about who he killed to suit your own loyalty to Voldemort?"

"_You_?"

Harry frowned, not agreeing, "Funny, I never actually read a death certificate for Harry Potter."

Lucius stared at him, "I didn't, either."

Harry grinned, "Here's the funnier thing, _I'm_ not going to kill you, but Judas Cliffdale will."

Lucius blinked fury and spewed, "Aveda—"

"_Aviada_ _Lumona_!" Harry whispered right back, without wasting so much as a millisecond.

The whole room went pitch black. Harry gasped, in pain, as he fell onto the stairs that surrounded him, weak. He had never done the spell before. It stripped his immediate body of power. Somehow, as screams of fear erupted from every person in the entry hall, and even in the open-door entrance to the ballroom, Harry pulled himself up with the help of Draco, who he could identify by the nearly light-like appearance that his hair created in the dark. They hurried up the steps as fast as they could, Harry stumbling and tumbling. Before Draco could throw him off of the balcony, Harry turned around, his hands out in front of him, defensively. "It wasn't what you think it is. Dumbledore has him now—he'll give him a chance to help the Order."

"What the _fuck_!" Draco was clutching his hair and forehead at the same time, so distressed he felt sick. He paced, at once, in a tiny little circle, and then demanded the only question he could fathom, throwing his hands out. "Potter, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I know what I'm doing, okay? A new Minister will be appointed. A new election."

"I wouldn't count on it," Draco hissed. "What about you, in the meantime? They all think you just murdered my father!"

"They didn't hear the spell. The room went dark. They'll think he muttered a candle curse. It _is_ his house, and they did hear what was said!"

Draco shoved him, again, frustrated, even more than ever, as they hurried down the hallway, "Merlin!"

Harry ushered him into his darkly lit bedroom, and Draco closed the door, "They'll think he bailed in the dark and ran. He never denied it to them. He didn't even try. They know about him, Malfoy, they're not dense. Most people voted for him out of fear." When Draco clutched his head, even again, not at all eased or convinced, Harry couldn't help but have a moment where he finally realized that… shit, he was standing in _Malfoy's_ bedroom, and their wands weren't pointed at each other, either. It was a miracle. Though, he blinked away his amazement and concentrated on the issue at hand, because he'd be doing a lot of that. He'd been advised to put the old Harry Potter's life in the past, at least until this was over—if… if it was ever over and he could… _return_.

After getting over the slight surprise at how distressed Malfoy was, he offered an olive branch, "I won't even be a suspect."

Draco stopped and deadpanned, "You're awfully sure of yourself."

Harry shrugged.

Draco's lips parted and he pointed, accusingly, at Harry "You're just as fucking arrogant and smug as ever!"

"_I'm_ arrogant and smug?" Harry whispered, quietly, feeling inwardly flabbergasted. "_Me_, Harry?"

Draco couldn't help but smile, suddenly, and he laughed, overcome, because… because the whole situation was outright ridiculous and Harry Potter was standing in front of him, but as someone else, all wounded like a puppy, and it somehow made Draco back off. Still, though, so he retained some semblance of normalcy, he couldn't help but tease, as he pulled a suspiciously pleased face, "What's that, Potter? You sound a little... _hurt_."

Harry reached out, with both hands, and gave Draco another small shove, "Do not even start, Malfoy."

Draco felt his face light up, and then his eyes, and he slowly returned the shove, and after he watched Potter stagger a bit, he smiled and said, "You know, Potter? You're actually kind of... _brilliant_."


	4. The Never Ending Night

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**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Four

The Never-Ending Night

Draco watched as Harry ran his hands through his light brown hair, shaking his fingers violently in the mess of locks in the process. He was pacing, sputtering off something about not being able to keep his mouth shut, about knowing he'd screwed up in telling Draco that he was him--Harry-- in the first place. And then there was something else about having to wing everything, now, because everything had happened exactly opposite of how it was supposed to.

Finally, Draco stepped away from the end of his bed and joined Harry, stepping into the direct track that he had been pacing, undoubtedly causing heat of friction on the floor. He faced Harry, perfectly still, so Harry did the same thing, looking flushed. Draco didn't have any good advice to tell him that he hadn't screwed up, so he offered a small distraction. "Stop panicking, will you? It puts wrinkles in your forehead."

Harry tightly clenched his sides in his hands, both irritated and amused, "I... what? Wrinkles?"

Draco said nothing to respond to him, at first, watching as he changed his course and began to pace again. He was chewing on his thumbnail and his eyebrows were narrowed so much that his eyes weren't quite as visible as they should have been, especially in the slightly-dark room. The shadows that cast over Harry Potter's unfamiliar face blurred out the expression of stress that Draco knew he was obviously battling. It was then, when he mentally referred to this unfamiliar-looking young man, that he realized it was _Harry Potter_, his sworn archenemy, and he mused, "You're not really dead."

Harry stopped. He turned slowly and answered, "I am--I mean... I think I am. Hell, I don't even quite fully understand, but I am dead. _I think_."

"You're obviously not dead, at least not all of you," Draco told him, crossing his arms, as he took in the tall frame. Harry had always been attractive, he supposed, and more-so beginning in fifth year into sixth, when he had finally grown out of his awkward-years and into something almost breathtakingly beautiful, just like Draco had. "I think," he said calmly, "you'd better tell me what the hell you "think" is going on."

Harry faced him, again, and found he wasn't even sure how to answer that, either, "I will, when I get it all worked out, if you'll keep my secret. Frankly, however, there is no time for me to give you answers right now."

Draco pointed the tip of his wand at Harry. Hmm, keeping Potter's secret? He was fairly friendly for no reason; it was a bit disarming, "Fine, then tell me on the way to wherever it is you _think_ you're going."

Harry turned away from Draco, opposite of him, in the dark room, knowing that a hex wasn't going to hit him. Draco wasn't going to do anything to him and vice versa. Regardless of his newly-released identity, he hadn't been lying, earlier, about Draco being, basically, all he had. Going into it, he hadn't had much time to brood about having to work with Draco. Malfoy had been the last problem on his mind. He had walked into the situation with open eyes. He hadn't been able to show the cold stiffness that he had always shown Draco. Surprisingly, it didn't matter who he was, because Draco had accepted him quite easily, either way.

"Tell you on the way to where?" Harry looked back at him. "I've nowhere to go, not yet. I have no funds just yet, either. And I can't stay here, now can I?"

Draco pocketed his wand, following Harry towards the windows that had been so important earlier in the day. The moonlight shone in through the open and beautiful stone windows. A halo formed around Harry, and Draco stepped into the light, as well. Harry was leaned over, his elbows resting down on the stone ledge. He buried his face into his hands and rubbed, groaning. This was a side of Harry Potter he never thought he'd see, "Potter?"

"What?" Harry pulled his face out of his hands and peeked to the right, finding the head of platinum hair and a paler shade of face, but it was healthy, bright, and fit his philosophically thoughtful tone.

"Why _couldn't_ you stay here?" Draco asked, leaning down and imitating Harry's position. He rested his chin against the center of his right palm, his attention directly focused onto the brown eyes of Harry Potter. THERE IT WAS AGAIN, the unfamiliar Harry Potter! Groaning with self-annoyance, Draco looked away before Harry could get a word in. Whatever was going on, Draco was now part of it, and there was no way around it. "You said it yourself: everyone saw what happened. They heard what you said, and you're right, he never denied it. They'll think _he_ fled. In their minds... why would you need to? You're Judas Cliffdale, our _guest_."

Harry couldn't help but laugh, mostly because otherwise he'd cry, "Malfoy, we'd kill each other."

"Bullshit, stop lying," Draco hit back at him, carelessly, not looking at him. "This is not about you and me, and, anyway, I think we've shown we can get along... to a certain degree... under circumstances which really leave us no options... based on lies... you get the point, no?"

Harry pushed himself back, away from the ledge. In the process, his right hand lightly wrapped over the center of Draco's upper arm. However, he didn't say anything, nor did Draco. Pulling him away from the light, away from the open window, where they had been watching a family coo over the estate's lavish gardens, Harry could see that Draco was waiting for a real answer. He couldn't lie and say he wasn't grateful that Malfoy could easily see through what he was saying. Inwardly, he was impressed, though he wouldn't admit it, with Malfoy's last statement. Instead of saying anything, Harry held his hand up in the air, opened it, and, with his other hand, pretended to scribble on it.

Draco walked around him, and, a few seconds later, he was leaned over his desk, shuffling through the pull-out drawer right below the surface of the grand old, wooden desk. He finally managed to find a blank piece of scratch parchment, and he pulled it up onto the clean, empty desk top. He then closed the drawer below. Almost as soon as he placed it down, Harry had found a quill, dipped it, and was scribbling something down, leaned down, too. Draco moved in closer to Harry's left arm, dropping his face to read the message as he wrote.

_I know it's not about us; it's about Voldemort. Tonight is suspicious to everyone. Please keep addressing me as Judas. This is your home, and someone could be easily listening._

Draco looked right at Harry's profile and then back down at the paper, because he was still writing.

_You're going to need to show open support to the Death Eaters, I think, if you want to help. You're my in, now._

Draco, frustrated with reading this, reached up onto the top of his desk to a little jar that held feather quills. He pulled one out, not ashamed that it had bite marks and half-moon fingertip dents in it. When he got bored filling out paper work for summer internship work, he often tended to find ways to alter the shape of his quills. Without any sort of grace, he dipped the pen into the ink, hard, causing a little splash to land on the paper. He lowered his quill to the paper, not bothering to let Harry move his arm. He just wrote over it.

_I wouldn't even show support to my own father, and you think I'm going to do so, NOW, to help YOU?_

Draco underlined _you_ two times before looking right back at Harry, expectantly, their faces close in the dark.

Harry pulled his eyes away, immediately, and pushed Draco's arm out of the way. A small gasp of horror instantly reacted to the action. He started to laugh, out loud, and looked away from the paper, forgetting what he was going to write and how he was going to try and convince Malfoy into helping him, of all people, especially when his help was going to have Draco taking part in something he was strongly against, which had never before been a problem, because Harry never imagined Draco to be so set in his pants about Voldemort's role in his life.

Draco's arm had hit the ink-jar. In result, his red-robe was now covered in black ink.

Harry stared, having stood straight up to watch the gloriously amusing reaction, covering his mouth with his hand as fast as he could. Draco looked like he was going to cry! Deciding that it wasn't wise to be openly laughing at Malfoy, even from behind his hand, he returned his attention back down the paper. Beside him, he could hear the distant, quiet whisper of numbers and deep breaths. He kept smiling to himself. Malfoy was counting to calm himself. Very entertained by this, albeit a little bewildered, Harry continued to write.

When Draco got to the number one, he took a very deep breath and reappeared beside Harry.

Draco fixed his eyes down onto the parchment paper.

_I know, now, that you want Voldemort gone like I do. I'm not saying I have any particular plans yet, but it might be an option. Would you rather sit back and do nothing?_

"Yes," Draco answered, aloud, and stood up straight. He turned his back to Harry and walked away. No, he did not want to sit back and do nothing, but at that moment, there was nothing he could do. He had never had a more confusing day in his entire life, and all he wanted to do was wake up the next morning, after having some time to contemplate everything that had happened and walk right up to Harry Potter, or Judas Cliffdale, when he was alone, and tell him that he would help. But, now, he was angry and frustrated, his mother was a wreck, his father had disappeared into a poof of smoke, their entire world was going to be in a panicked uproar at the disappearance of his father, a known death eater, who had been last seen about to duel with Judas Cliffdale, who had publicly informed the guests, at the Minister's ball, that the Minister had killed his mother. And the Minister had not denied it.

"Look, you're staying here tonight, _Judas_, and that's that." He turned to Potter. "I know today has been hard, and I know you're looking for an escape, but you're in no condition. You need to stay here tonight. Also, my mother will have it no other way."

Harry placed the cap on the ink jar and slowly turned around, having erased the parchment with magic and torn it up. The pieces, in his left hand, were crumbled up into tiny little specks, almost like ash. He walked over towards the open window, only a few feet away, opened his palm, and let the sand-like powder fall to the earth that was stories below. He turned back around, to Draco, watching silently as he began to pull his robe off over his head. Clearly, he was wearing something under, so Harry didn't panic. He also didn't argue with staying there for at least the night, "Do you think we'll be questioned?"

Draco glanced back at Harry, over his shoulder, but it hurt too much, so he looked away, again, "I wouldn't plan on sleeping tonight, to be honest. There will be reporters here all night. That and live broadcasts from the Wireless Network. I'm sure the Ministry will send in Security teams to find Lucius, wherever he _disappeared_ to," he said, quietly, calmly, as he walked his newly-stained robe towards his closet. He opened it and tossed it in, but it didn't fall to the floor. It straightened itself, self-cleaned, gave a shake, like a dog, and then promptly wiggled itself onto a bright red hanger. He grinned at the hanger. It was the only non-green hanger that he had, to match the only red-colored clothing he had in his closet. He sighed as he turned around, though.

Across the room, Harry was staring out the window again, his lean body lounged out against the side of the window.

"I'm sure your bags were already taken to your guest room," he said, closing his closet door behind him just for something to do. If he hadn't done it, the door would have closed by itself. Behind him, the door bid him a good-night, so he lightly grinned, looking over his shoulder. "Goodnight, dear," he replied, like he had done every night since he was a little boy. He loved his talking door, even more so than some of his closest relatives. He was close with his door, as it was always there to talk to him when no one else was. His father... had personally made it for him when he was younger. He had even broken certain laws to do so. "I'll take you there, you can change, and... I think it would be a good idea if we went downstairs and just sort of sat around with my mother for awhile, if she's alone, and if she's not, we can find somewhere else to sit for awhile. I don't think it's safe for you to be alone when Lucius is missing and Ministry Officials are around. And I'm not entirely convinced you're safe here, period."

Harry stepped away from the light, once more, and joined Draco in the dark. He offered out an equally large olive branch, "We can catch up."

Draco stopped, in the center of his room, and watched as Harry took route to his door, "_Catch up_?"

"Well, sure, a lot has happened since we were four, no?" Harry grinned. "I'm sure there are stories I'd love to hear."

Draco's left eyebrow lifted, as he saw a dimple appear on Potter's cheek, and then a smirk, "Potter stories?"

Once Draco stood beside him, in front of the bedroom door, Harry dropped his smirk and his smile. What he was feeling about Malfoy, he wasn't quite sure. Everything that he had known about friends and enemies had flown out the window over the prior digression of the last six months. Friends he had once had had betrayed him, or had decided it wasn't safe to be around him, though those friends had never cared before. There was only one person who had stayed his friend, and that was Ron. Without a doubt, without a flicker of fear of hesitance, Ron Weasley had always been there for him, and vice versa.

While he had been losing friends, his rivalry with Draco had intensified, so much so that most of his frustrations had been taken out during mid-day dueling matches in lone-corridors with none other than his arch-rival, Slytherin of a nemesis, Malfoy. From those times, something had arisen between them, almost more of a respect than anything. At least, to Harry, Draco's presence in his old life, however frustrating and infuriating, had turned out to bloom into a relationship that no one else had been able to ever give him.

Harry shook his head from left to right, once, "No, about anything. I've think I've heard enough about Harry Potter."

Draco turned the doorknob of his bedroom but didn't open the door just yet. He stared directly at the level-eyes looking right back to his. They were of equal height, and it was then that Draco realized that Harry's form was still that of his own, and it hadn't been altered to suite Judas Cliffdale, however he may have looked. Still, the same hands he had seen wrapped so tightly around Potter's wand were still there. It was still him, just not him. He breathed out, and, in the process, his lips vibrated, "I haven't."

Harry grinned as Draco opened the door. They were hardly friendly, but Malfoy's decency was much appreciated.

While Draco walked out into the brightly lit hallway, Harry was almost blinded. He closed the door behind him, however, as he stepped out of the doorway. He didn't join Draco just yet. Instead, his eyes were inquisitively absorbing the back of the very lean frame. At Hogwarts, he had only ever seen Draco in his robes and his Quidditch gear, both of which bulked and hid his body. He was clad in white cotton trousers and a light yellow T-shirt that then solely displayed very toned, nicely sculpted, lean arms, "Draco?"

Draco turned around, easily, but then pointed at an immobile Harry, confused at his stance, "What?"

The left side of Harry's mouth upturned, and then the right. He suddenly realized, "You're wearing muggle clothes, no robes."

Draco looked down at himself, as if confused for a moment, and then back to Harry, "I always do."

The expression on Potter's face was that of priceless brilliance, and Draco wished he had had a camera to capture it. As the familiar frame walked towards him, he shook his head from side to side, to imitate it. He knew exactly what Harry was so stunned about. It hadn't occurred to Draco that Harry had never seen him when he was out of his school robes or his Quidditch uniform. Only in the last year had Draco started finding himself, and finding comfort in wearing muggle clothing. Literally, it was muggle clothing, from muggle stores. Even his band T-shirts were muggle bands, not magic bands.

Harry stopped and read the shirt, "_Nirvana_," he laughed, quietly, and then gave a nod. "You, _Draco_, are wearing a Nirvana shirt."

Draco watched him work through it in his head, amused, "What, you've never heard of them?"

Harry stepped around him, widely grinning to himself, but not wanting Malfoy to see, "Oh, I've heard."

Draco followed him, coolly, taking his time, like Harry was, "What about... Guns N' Roses? Like them?"

Harry turned around, at once, his left eyebrow hooking up, furiously grinning, now, "Axl Rose was my God for a summer."

Draco had never discussed muggle bands with anyone, and so he didn't bother to keep down his eagerness, "Did you know there was a feud between Axl and Kurt?"

Harry shook his head, awed, looking up at the ceilings and now following Malfoy, "Axl loved Kurt's brilliance."

"Yeah," Malfoy replied, concentrating on which room they were likely to find his mother in, "but Kurt despised the rock-star that Axl was. It was everything he was against."

"Hmm," Harry replied, with a laugh, impressed and extremely confused as to how Draco Malfoy was so completely educated on muggle bands. It was entertaining and very amusing. It was obvious that Draco was delighted to be talking about what they were, and he had no urge to destroy his delight, strangely enough. "That sounds somewhat familiar."

Draco smirked, looking away from a painting on the wall to cast Potter a once-over, "Yeah, well, Kurt killed himself in the end because he was so miserable."

"Kurt did not kill himself," Harry interrupted, at once, loudly and defensively. "Don't be a pawn!"

Draco turned around, stopped in front of a door, "You're one of those, then?" Conspiracy theorists!

Harry walked right up to Draco, staring eye to eye, "I look a little deeper into things, _that's_ all."

Draco slowly stepped aside, and as Harry opened the door to his guest room, he was in awe. Draco had never discussed Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain with anyone, in his entire life! He had found a disc-man, once, in a lost in found box in a muggle record store, the very first time he had ever entered a muggle ANYTHING. Inside the CD player of the disc-man, one single CD spun. It had been Nirvana, so, naturally, Draco had taken to it. As soon as he had heard the very first five words of the very first song, he'd been hooked. Muggle bands were so much more brilliant than wizard bands. He didn't know why, but it was something he wasn't going to complain about. Since then, he had found ways of snagging CDs off of muggle store shelves by apparating in, when no one was looking, and apparating out when no one was looking. However, he could only listen to his player far away from any magical institutions, including his own home. It didn't work around magic, "By the way, if you call me a pawn one more time, I'll hex your balls off."

Harry could only gaze at the room in front of him, too in awe to turn around or take the threat as anything other than its teasing nature, "I'd like to see you try."

Draco coughed a laugh, "Right. Well, get changed quickly. I'll wait out here."

Harry turned around. Before he closed the door, he saw Draco glance at him, almost sadly.

When the door was finally closed, Harry pressed his forehead against it, finally alone. And, sad, too.

It was a couple of hours later that the two young men sat across from each other, in similar brown velvet arm chairs, in front of a quiet, yet furiously roaring, fire. There was a good ten feet that separated them. Since Harry had walked into the room, not a word had been spoken. Everything that had been said earlier in the evening was placed behind them both as somewhat of a lie that had eased them. Pushing all of that aside, the obviousness of the situation sunk in. Harry Potter was Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy.

"These reporters are the most intrusive I've ever seen," interrupted a voice, barricading through the tension between the two boys who were still staring at each other, in their own worlds, in their own minds. The voice distracted Harry, but Draco didn't look towards the new entrance. He looked to the left, towards the fire behind them. However, at the silence that interrupted the room, once more, Draco turned his attention back to Harry and then the thirty-something brunette in the doorway.

In the doorway stood a dark-headed, dark-eyed, lean, attractive man, whose face was nearly covered in beard. At their silence, he simply asked, "Are you two on mute?"

The only place Harry's eyes landed was the jaw line of this man, and the lower part of his face. It was such a familiar jaw, even through the edge of the beard. He had never seen this person, ever, that he could remember. He had no idea who it was. He hadn't even a clue, and he had had files on all of the people in the Malfoy's circle, too. The man was looking at Draco who was just staring back. When Harry's eyes landed on Draco's face, this time, his eyes froze. They had the exact same jaw-line and chin, Malfoy and this man!

Harry looked back at the man, again, his eyes inflamed enormously, though they were squinted and bewildered at the same time; what was going on? Was this man an Uncle of Draco's on Lucius's side? If so, Draco had gotten all of his looks and none of Lucius's. He pushed himself up and carefully walked in the direction of the man, extending his right hand. He was hardly threatening, so Harry was comfortable in greeting him. "I'm sorry, my manners; it's been a hectic day. Judas Cliffdale."

The man returned the handshake, grinning nearly madly at him, eyes speaking volumes of things Harry did not understand, "Please, like I wouldn't recognize Draco's childhood best friend," he said, and he almost sounded amused. "Cornwell Black."

"Cornwell _Black_?" Harry immediately blurted out, as their hands dropped. Wait a second, hold the broomsticks back. Harry looked back in the direction of Draco who was suddenly standing on his feet, strolling over, as well, seemingly irritated that Cornwell had just introduced himself. Harry wasn't fazed. _Black_? As in... he was a Black family member? Was that even possible? He had never heard mention of a man named Cornwell Black and had never seen his picture on Sirius's family tree two years prior. If this man was a Black, why did he look so much like a darker version of Draco? Up close, now, Harry could easily see this. It was uncanny.

"My father goes missing and here you are; I'm not surprised," Draco greeted, stopping a few feet away, hands firmly at his sides.

Harry glanced at him. Oh, so it was an uncomfortably awkward relationship, then? Harry flinched and pointed at the door, "Okay, then, I'll let you two get reacquainted?"

Awkwardly, he took a route around the strangely suspicion-evoking man, not sure what to say. When he was in the doorway, he looked back over his shoulder at Draco, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Draco had his hands on his sides, now, his jaw was clenched to one side, and he seemed unimpressed and angry--hurt, too, maybe? Perhaps that was just Harry's mind, which was suddenly unable to lead him away.

"By the way, how do you two know each other?" Maybe he could stay for a little while?

Draco glanced at him, darkly, but then looked right back to the man without giving an answer, like waiting to see what Cornwell would say.

The man turned around, halfway, and was the one to answer. He did so very casually, "Draco is my son."

It took a long second for Harry to even... _acknowledge_ that this was what had just been said. His eyes faltered away from the man's honest dark brown eyes, hidden behind long and exquisite eyelashes. There had been no immediate outburst from Draco's mouth of denial. Harry looked back at Draco, his mind in all sorts of awe and shock; no way, it wasn't possible. Draco looked just like his father—Lucius _Malfoy_--well, did he, aside from the pale hair and air of aristocracy? Before he could even let the words settle, he walked straight back into the room, his fingertips extended out in front of him as if he needed them to steady his pace, and he just blurted out a disbelieving, "_What_?"

Before Cornwell could answer Harry--_Harry fucking Potter_--Draco turned around, sharply, "Quite the story, actually, _Judas_," he explained, mockingly making his voice light and cheerful. He fell back down into his armchair, his arms resting on the sides of it; there was no reason to deny it. He'd seen Potter put it together as soon as Cornwell had walked in; they were nearly identical, now that Draco's soft curves had turned into prompt adult features. He didn't look at either one of the other two occupants in the room. Cornwell Black, who he hadn't seen up close in about three years, had just swaggered right on in. He didn't even look like Draco remembered. He had a beard now. He was a beautiful man, actually, but he wasn't the slightest bit feminine like Draco was. He was one hundred percent man, down to his bearably full dark beard and his deep, raspy voice. "It all started after my parents were married... lavish event, really. Their marriage was supposed to be perfect, but, well, this is a Pureblood family, _of course something's not right behind the scenes_."

Cornwell turned to Harry, but with a slight roll of his eyes, though kindly, and warned, "He tells this story more dramatically each time."

Harry couldn't help the chuckle that left his mouth. He didn't know where it had come from, or how, but it entered the room. Draco immediately looked at him, without a second to waste. He pushed himself up, and Harry abruptly calmed his laughter. This Cornwell man... there was just something so _honest_ about him. The way he entered the room, it didn't leave any uncomfortable presence. It was obvious that he had only been trying to ease the situation for Harry. Well, Judas.

Draco faced the two of them, "My father was a _little_ gay, at the time, and my mother was lonely."

Harry stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. Suddenly, though, he nervously laughed, "No, seriously."

"Oh, no; he was being serious," Cornwell whispered after Draco had instantly shot Harry his middle finger, furiously turned around, and stormed out of the room, into the dark corridor, leaving a trail of confusion behind him. The whole situation caused Harry to lean against the wall of the fireplace room, his eyes heavily hitting the floor. They just told him? They just blurted it out to him? _Oh, by the way, Potter, Lucius Malfoy isn't my real father. However, this man is. See, you thought you knew me, Potter. Thought you knew everything. Bet you didn't expect this—my father is a mountain man! With a beard! And boots! And unkempt hair!_

"Oh, _Jesus_," fell ungracefully out of Harry's mouth. He looked in the direction of the open door, though it was much to late to have been seeing the fleeting figure of Draco Malfoy. He looked back at the man, speechless. The man seemed more uncomfortable than Harry felt. He had his hands on his sides, and he was looking at the floor, perhaps pondering if he had handled the situation wrong and was truly upset with himself. "Wait, seriously? Lucius is... _gay_?"

"Was," stressed the man who then slightly laughed. "He was young, experimenting; that's the excuse they all use. You'll want to remember that, now that you're here."

Harry glanced at him, slowly, alert swirling in his head. Did... no... how could... no, this man could not have known he was Harry Potter, but, still, wouldn't he have figured Judas Cliffdale would have known just how Pureblood families acted behind closed doors? Finding himself paranoid, he awkwardly offered, "Er..."

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

"So, you're... you are really Draco's father?" Harry just boggled over this, staring at him again. This man was the complete opposite of Lucius Malfoy. Thinking back on it, Draco had never looked like his father. Sure, they had the same hair color, but their facial features, Harry had always just figured that Draco took after his mother's side of the family, though her features were sharp and some of Draco's features, like his cheekbones, were rounded off. His jaw and cheekbones, while his parents (Narcissa and Lucius) had killer sets of both, were not like either one, or even a perfect mix. They were different, in an exquisite, dominant sort of way. It did make sense, now, staring at this man's face. It was impossible to dispute. This man was Draco Malfoy's father.

The man squinted at him, "You know you can't say a word to anyone, yes?"

Harry slightly laughed, as it was the only available response, "I wouldn't even try. Draco would kill me if I did, I'm absolutely... _positive_."

"No, he wouldn't," the man calmly replied, but then held his hand up. Harry's eyes followed it, waiting for some sort of action to follow. However, he was motioning toward the air about the room. Reading between the lines, Harry's eyes finally left the man's hand, and he searched around the room, realizing what Cornwell was about to say; this was the Malfoy manor, where they stood. "Regardless of who I am to Draco, he is still Lucius's son. If word leaked out, it would damage things far more than you could understand. He would be dead before the morning word had spread out. I trust you understand."

Harry went to ask, but then looked away, fully gaining acknowledgment. Right, Voldemort, "Unbelievable." Wanting every single detail of this, suddenly, Harry stepped backward and motioned toward the open doors of the room. Things were already difficult enough, now. The night was going to be long, and even if he tried to sleep, he would be berated by nosy reporters trying to get onto the premises and throwing bewitched rocks up to tap on his guest room windows. "Does Narcissa know that you're here?"

Cornwell smirked, "If Narcissa knew I was here, she'd have me hexed."

THAT SMIRK.

Harry, now leading the man out of the room, had to close his eyes and rub his palms over them to make sure he had just seen the original Malfoy smirk on a... non-Malfoy. The footsteps behind him were loud, due to the man's boots. They had been nice, brown leather or something of the sort, perhaps when he had bought them... which must have been years ago; they were very worn. The man hadn't been wearing proper robes, which Harry found amusing. First Draco was wearing muggle clothing, and now this man, Malfoy's _father_, was clanking around the Malfoy estate in heavy boots and a flannel button-up shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of light, so he glanced over, to his left, to see that Draco was standing there, now with his mother, who had just swooped into the room, too. Her hair had been the flash of light.

"Draco, are you still brooding? For Merlin's sake, you're going to permanently damage your face."

Draco unwrinkled his forehead, not looking at her but rather Cornwell, intently, "We have a visitor."

Harry almost wanted to excuse himself out of the room, feeling that it was a private matter. However, he couldn't seem to move his feet, paralyzed by the way everyone else was perfectly stabilized in place as Narcissa's eyes followed Draco's to Cornwell. Of course, by what Cornwell had told him about Narcissa's reaction to his presence, Harry expected her to be shrill and mean, and hex the man, or at least threaten him. However, she twisted, rubbed the back of her head, looking from Draco to Cornwell. Then, she started to flush. Amused, Harry watched Draco roll his eyes, drop his arms, sigh loudly, and finally take a step in Harry's direction.

"Cornwell," Narcissa greeted, quietly, across the large corridor. "It's been awhile."

Draco stopped halfway between them. His eyes moved from one to the other. Frustrated and unable to display emotion enough to express how he was feeling, he pivoted away from them, once more, and took route toward Harry. Jesus, he never thought he's see the day that he would willingly walk toward Harry Potter as an escape route. Harry hadn't moved, or backed up, or done anything. He was just standing there, with his arms at his sides, his newly-brown eyes blankly hiding awe behind the shadows that became less relevant as the space closed between them.

"You'll remember that I was asked to stay away, Narcissa," the deep voice replied, but not easily.

Draco spun around, unable to keep his tongue, "You should have kept staying away from us. You'll ruin everything. You're a target."

"That's thickheaded of _you_ to say, Draco _Malfoy_, you ugly little git."

Draco blinked, furious, and turned away to Harry. But, then there was a lot of laughter that had taken over the room. Draco spun around, again, holding out his right hand in the air, his index fingertip expanded. He was obviously about to comeback with something and make a point. However, he fell silent, and his hand fell from the air. Cornwell was only teasing him, and he knew he wasn't ugly, because Draco looked almost identical to him, just the lighter-headed, paler-skinned, aristocratic version. He half-smiled, before he could help it, extremely entertained with the words that had left the man who had always been kept at a distance from him, at bay. He tried to drop the smile, but he couldn't help it. They had been estranged for three years, at least from seeing each other in person, and Draco had been extremely bitter about it. He had not wanted Potter to see them this way; he hadn't wanted Potter to ever know. Draco had grown up knowing Cornwell as a second father, but viewed him officially as an "uncle" to appease Lucius. "That was mean."

The man walked towards him, pulling something out of his pocket, "Mean, but you're laughing."

Cornwell placed an envelope in Draco's outstretched hand, "What is this?"

"Read it," responded the man, his voice overwhelmingly soft. "Something I've been working on, Mister Malfoy."

Feeling horrible for the man, Harry suddenly looked between the two faces, examining them with the utmost contempt. Cornwell was a good six feet tall, and Draco was about two inches shorter. As Draco looked down at the envelope, Harry saw Cornwell examine his similar, all-around beautiful, features, and he almost did so with pride. Something swirled inside of his own chest, watching the awkward exchange of the envelope. Draco had looked down because Cornwell had referred to him as Mister Malfoy, and it was quite obvious it had been of a pointed nature, something that Draco had been reminded of. As soon as Draco began to look up, silently, Cornwell pulled his eyes away from the younger man and walked around Draco without another word.

Draco didn't turn around to watch him go, just stayed immobile.

"It was very nice to meet you, by the way," Cornwell said, kindly, taking the time to look directly at Harry. Again, with the knowing eyes.

Harry was suspicious at once, "You, too, Cornwell. You, too," he replied, genuinely, but very quietly.

Draco turned around, finally, his mood having clearly changed, "Is this my birthday present, then? A piece of paper?"

Narcissa was a mess on the sidelines of the room, wringing her hands together, "Draco, don't be rude."

Cornwell glanced at Draco, "Apparently, it can't be. Why would I get you a birthday present?"

Draco tore the envelope up and tossed it onto the floor, and Harry bawked; Draco tried to ignore it. He'd just torn it to make a rebellious and immature point, which showed on Cornwell's face. He had ever intention of reading the letter, just not right then, "I don't know, because you've missed the last three?"

Cornwell stared at the torn envelope now laying on the floor. He seemed to sense that Draco wanted a fight, so he offered, with a careful drawl, "It's not like I'm your father; I don't need to buy you presents."

Draco blinked at his words.

"Do you remember that, Draco? Because I do." Pause. "It was your decision to push me away; to be angry with me now is... frankly, unfair. I thought a visit was in order, but if a piece of paper isn't a good enough present, I will gladly take it back... as to unburden you."

Harry clutched the back of his neck, his lips pressed together.

Draco looked deadened, like a Dementor had just sucked out his soul.

"I didn't ever make a decision the way you make it sound," he replied, quietly, as Cornwell started for the letter. It was obvious where he was going. At the fast pace of the lean, exotic-looking man, Draco's right foot stomped over the letter that was about two feet in front of him. His foot covered it, and he dragged it back, under his shoe, until he was standing over it completely. Regardless of having torn up the letter, he had still wanted to read it. He had just torn it to make a statement, after all. The statement? That he was an impulsive jerk. He was angry with himself, now. Seeing the man retreating, once more, Draco stepped forward. He couldn't just leave! All he ever did was leave; hell, it was Draco's fault, but still, "Oh, you're leaving. How... surprising."

Cornwell, with an expression that matched Draco's, turned around, "How proud a day; you sound just like your father."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Aside from what he does, he's a decent man."

"I'm not arguing with you," the older man responded. "He did raise you well."

As Cornwell went to leave, once again, Draco loudly growled in frustration. _Enough_! He was clearly trying to find something to say that would spark a conversation, or a fight, with Cornwell, just so he'd be around that much longer. The man had disappeared from his life three years earlier, and Draco had never been given answers about where he was, or why, and had begun to believe that he was dead. Honestly. It wouldn't have been a surprise, especially once Voldemort had told Lucius that he was getting antsy about Cornwell coming out of the woodworks once Draco was of age. It was one of the reasons Draco had held back for so long when it came to joining the leagues that his father—Lucius—belonged to. Had Draco joined the fight, well, it had been likely Cornwell wouldn't have reacted well. For some reason, Cornwell's presence was not very welcome.

Lucius _was _his father, no doubt, He had raised Draco as his own, and fondly, and had never used it against him. He had taught Draco fencing, and explained the Estate finances, and read him stories, but Cornwell had read him more stories, and taken him around Hogsmeade every weekend, even took him on vacations, fun ones, and applied sun-screen spells to his face to keep him from burning, and, when he had burned, and Draco had wailed and complained, Cornwell hadn't sushed him like Lucius had, but babied him.

"You're just like Sirius was, against your own family. It'll kill you, just like it did him."

"Sirius Black?" Harry asked, loudly, before Cornwell could reply to Draco. "You're related to Sirius Black?"

Cornwell looked over, "My cousin," he explained, before he looked back at Draco. "Draco, I do not wish to give you a reaction."

Draco seethed because Cornwell so easily saw through him, "Where the hell are you going?" Draco demanded, forcefully, finally, following him towards the corridor, because he had finally made his way through it. The man swept down the hallway even more powerfully than his Lucius did, even without the robes or cloaks. Cornwell had been set up for success, and, somehow, a somehow that no one had ever thought Draco should hear about, had turned everything down or had lost everything. Draco had never been sure; no one had ever trusted him. All he knew was that Cornwell had basically turned into a recluse, and that he had a wife. He stopped. "I swear on Voldemort, if you don't turn around, I'll hex you right now!"

Cornwell didn't turn around at the empty threat, "You truly are your father's son, Draco!"

Draco, furious, threw his wand after Cornwell, quite literally, frustrated, "I don't even KNOW my father anymore!"

The wand hit Cornwell. He turned around, at once, not having drawn his own wand.

"What's that?"

Draco held his left hand out, glaring, "_Accio wand_, and you heard me."

"Your father is Lucius Malfoy, Draco. He always has been. He always will be; at least, I remember you saying so."

Draco stared at him, and it was hardly unflattering, "I was _thirteen_ years old and throwing a fit; what did you want me to do, Cornwell? See things logically?"

The man said nothing to him, just shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and turned around once more. This time, Draco didn't follow him, only just being able to helplessly, brokenly, watch the retreating figure walking towards the front doors of the estate, where they all knew there were probably hundreds of reporters, by now, lined up, from all over the world. The last time Draco had seen him, Cornwell had been so angry with him. He had been so angry that Draco had chosen Lucius's world, Lucius's life-choices, instead of his own. Cornwell had been a father-figure to him and had done things with him that fathers and sons did, like playing Quidditch, or taken him fishing (yes, fishing), or playing card-games, or going to fetch things for Draco when he was sick and then complaining about how much Draco was soaking up the attention. Draco had adored Cornwell. He had been the father that Lucius had never been, and once he'd found out that Cornwell WAS his real father, with a good look at himself in the mirror, all hell had let loose between his mother, father, and Cornwell.

There had even been a time in life when Draco called Cornwell his "Papa." It had been his first word, and said to Cornwell.

"Why did you even come here? I don't understand. You could have mailed me this."

Cornwell turned around, this time, "I thought you'd be different by now, wiser, somehow, but you're just like Lucius."

"You don't know that! You don't know anything about me, and you don't even want to try!"

"Do you know how many letters I've sent you, Draco? How many of those have you received? Read? Responded to?"

Draco started forward, again, helplessly flabbergasted and lost, "It is not my fault if Lucius intercepted them."

"It doesn't matter, because I know you received some and never responded. He has raised you since I left; deep down, you're like him. Even the way you look."

Draco stopped in his tracks and harshly breathed in, "I look exactly like _you_, not him."

"I don't mean physically, Draco. There's an air about you. You _are_ a Malfoy. And you don't look as much like me as you may think. I don't know if it's possible, but you seem to look like Lucius than you do me, which isn't that far-fetched, because we are related," he mused this over, aloud, taking his eyes away from the stabilized, immobile Draco feet away. But the silence reigned supreme, again, and his eyes were set back onto Draco, intently. "It has been three years. You made your choice. Your father made his choice. I just wanted to deliver this one, myself, to see that it got to you on your birthday." Which was the next day. "Both your father and your mother," Narcissa made a small sigh of desperation at being spoken of, "asked me to stay away from you, and you made your choice, which isn't surprising, because they are your parents, but... don't try to make me feel like I should stick around and make time for you, Draco. I know you've received some of my letters—I have that mail-status charm. You never responded. I've seen you in Diagon Alley, and you've hidden. Putting all of that aside, however, you are one day away from seventeen, and while I do feel like being here is pointless, especially now that you've ripped up the letter I've been trying to perfect for about the last week, your birthday is an exciting occasion, and I did swear to you when you were ten that on your seventeenth birthday I would get you a special present, so... it'll be on your doorstep tomorrow morning—well, this morning, actually."

Draco stared down at the floor, "You shouldn't have let them force you away last time."

"You don't know how hard I fought for you, Draco. Don't pretend like you do. _Don't even try_."

"Who did you fight with? Lucius? _God forbid_; like he'd ever hurt you."

Cornwell smirked, but it was bland and unimpressed. He was offended, but he was a man, a grown man who struggled. Even Harry could see that, as Cornwell decided to walk away instead of argue. He smiled, then, genuinely, and gave Draco one last tiny nod of farewell, "Happy birthday, Draco."

"Happy birthday!" Draco shouted madly, finally looking up, with horrible fury in veins, which probably matched an equal look in his eyes. He looked down at the torn letter in his hands, holding them out in front of him, a half in each hand. He glared at Cornwell, who was his father, his real father. "You're wishing me a happy birthday and telling me to FUCK off, basically? That's brilliant. If you haven't noticed, it's NOT a happy birthday--no one is happy here! Do you not remember that this place sucks out souls?" Cornwell thoughtfully seemed to remember. "Did you see the reporters out there? Lucius's day is done, who knows where he is, doing God knows what. Jesus, I mean, Harry Potter was... murdered." Wait, no, he wasn't dead. "The Cliffdales are..." Dead. "My father is..." Not dead, but probably being held captive by Dumbledore, now that he thought about it. "The world is fucking ending, and I'm supposed to pledge to Voldemort tomorrow night! And, my father, Lucius, is supposed to be here to, somehow, get me out of it, but he's not! He disappeared! And, now, you show up and tell me to fuck off! Like I don't have enough issues with you having left and all of the bullshit drama that followed in its wake. You're absolutely mad! You can fuck off and take your stupid letter with you. I'm tired of power-hungry men trying to dictate my life, and I'm even more tired of passive BASTARDS who can't stand up to those power-hungry men and take what is rightfully theirs—"

"Are you saying that you're rightfully mine, Draco?"

Draco seethed, clutching his hands out in the air as if to strangle the situation, "You are IMPOSSIBLE!"

"YOU were the one who made the decision to NOT have me in your life, Draco," Cornwell replied, though not entirely calmly, and it gave Draco hope, clearly.

"I was _fourteen_!" He shouted back, furious, over his shoulder, as he turned and started walking in the opposite direction, heading towards the entrance staircase. His mother and Harry had both appeared, within the last five seconds or so. Draco just couldn't handle this, not now! Everything in his life had been turned upside down since the morning before. Truths were lies. Lies were the truth. He had enough stresses in his life, stresses that no one cared about, or had ever tried to care about, or even KNEW about. He was Draco MALFOY, and now that his father was gone, he was expected to take over the Malfoy Estate, head up the family, but he had no idea how. He had been pruned for this his entire life. He was going to have to give up every one of his morals, of his feelings, and sell his soul out to Voldemort and be one of the deadened, foul-hearted drones that he had always despised.

"When you were fourteen, you were saying the same thing; _I'm fourteen, I CAN MAKE MY OWN CHOICES_!"

Draco turned around on the bottom step, "You trusted a fourteen year old to make that kind of choice? You thought I really chose Lucius and wasn't just yelling out of anger?"

Cornwell laughed, but angrily so, as he approached the staircase. This time, it was he who had words to say to a fleeting Draco and not the other way around, "Of course, I DID trust you, Draco! _I_ had raised you well, or don't you remember that? Where was Lucius when you were growing up?" Draco's eyes completely blanked over at the question. His nose got smaller, sucked in, and his cheek bones became indented sharply, very visible. "You _weren't_ a naive kid. You knew exactly what you'd done. You knew you'd chosen Lucius. I did try to change your mind, remember? You had my traveling owl address. You could have sent Artemis to me ANY TIME to say you had changed your mind, or even to see how I was. What choice did I have? Why would I stay here and watch you BECOME Lucius's heir? WHY? What would you have done?"

"When I made the choice, I didn't know you were going to leave because of it. You just left."

"Answer the question, Draco; what would you have done?"

Draco avoided the question, once more, sidestepping it, "I didn't know the letters had been intercepted."

"So you thought I would just leave without sending you letters--honestly, Draco? Do you feed these lies to yourself or have you been brainwashed, completely, by the Malfoys?"

"I'm _not_ a Malfoy," Draco repeated, very quietly. "Not by blood." By the time he was done speaking, under his breath, Cornwell was already standing in front of the front doors of the house. Draco slipped down onto the staircase, his eyes blankly taking in the exit. When his butt hit the step, he pulled his feet on the two steps below him and loosely wrapped his arms around his knees. As soon as the door opened, being completely blown open by Cornwell's hand, the night seemed to have faded into the brightest of a sunny afternoon. He'd totally fucked that up. Cornwell had been brave to come visit him, to have come with a letter, and good, kind intentions.

The flashes of cameras were so thunderous, and so bright, that Cornwell seemed blinded, with his arm covering the space in front of his face. He turned back to look at Draco, once. Draco's eyes perked up, somehow, for some reason. But the expression on the man's face was that of disappointment. It was disappointment Draco had never seen, before, on any one person's face. Instead of walking back into the house, to find a different exit, the man Draco knew to be his father blindly walked out into the sea of reporters, shoving a Quidditch cap down over his face and closing the door, silently, behind him.

The mess of noise was now silenced, once more.

"What's he doing wearing a Quidditch cap, anyway? Unnatural Squibs."

Draco glanced at his mother and then to Harry who was staring at Draco, now, with wide eyes. Really, how much new information could Potter take in by now?

_Squib?_

Draco looked away from Harry, "Mother, he's not an Unnatural Squib. He just doesn't practice magic anymore."

"He had himself stripped," she whispered back, and then she twitched, nervously, when Draco stared at her, like she had just stabbed him. "I thought you knew."

Draco stood up, slowly, and walked down the steps, "Excuse me, _what_?"

Narcissa nervously twisted, "Two years ago. Your father sent him a letter to ask why he hadn't come around, and he responded--he--you know, was living abroad? Without magic. We were surprised he hadn't come around."

"To see me?" Draco asked, to be more specific. She nodded. Draco sat down on the second-to-bottom step, clasped his hands together between his knees, and leaned over them. He stared down at the spotless, fuzz-less, shining marble floor. You know, until his mother had said that, he had been somewhat able to breathe freely. There was a gigantic knot, or blockage, of something, that had settled, it seemed, right over his chest, making it hard to catch a full breath or even think straight. "What did he... he just... why would he? Doesn't that cost... I mean, I thought it was impossible? Why would he... why would he do that? Why would the Ministry grant an ordinary wizard that? I thought stripping magic was only a myth? Why? Why? _Why would he do that_? Why didn't you tell me?" He was angry.

"I thought you knew!"

Draco looked at her, offended, insulted, and very hurt, "You would have known if I knew! You know every time I have a bad dream, or an aversion to a vegetable, or even a new blemish; don't you think I would have brought up the fact that Cornwell had himself _stripped of magic_?"

Narcissa didn't argue, just stepped back and walked out of the room as she began to tear up.

Harry sat down beside Draco very cautiously, speechless.

Draco turned his head to the left, brushing his hands together, gently, in front of him. How dare Potter sit down next to him when he was so seething and unstable. Draco scoffed, "I hate you, you know."

Harry's eyes stayed on Draco's hands, too, just watching, earnestly. What could he say? They did not like each other, and it was a given. They had never liked each other. This was different. When Draco hadn't known that Harry was who he was, he had accepted Judas Cliffdale with open arms and honest grins, laughter, and equal treatment. After they had retreated down to the fireplace room, that had all been put away. The rivalry was back, again, somehow, in the madness of the very confusing, surreal day. He turned his eyes away from Draco, completely, and took in the beautiful, now-empty entrance hall, "You hate everyone. If you lose me, right now, you've got nothing."

"I don't need you, Potter," Draco emptily dismissed him. "I'd rather have nothing than have you."

Harry sharply turned his attention back to Draco, his eyes narrowed too, "You're going to have to pretend."

"I'm not doing anything, least of all pretending to get along with you. You're everything I despise."

Harry stood up on the step, looking down at him, "You despise everything, you spoiled little bastard."

Draco stared up at him, his mouth agape, as Harry started up the stairs. He pushed himself up with his hands and with a small hop. He turned his back to the entrance hall and watched Harry take two steps at a time to get up the steps and away from him. Draco followed suit, taking two steps as fast as he could, "You know nothing about me! You think I'm so spoiled? With what? Material things? Like any of that really matters to me? Do you know how much I hate the majority of this house? Typical Gryffindor, judging solely on a person from how they appear."

Harry tried not to laugh at his reasoning, "You have _two_ fathers and you apparently hate both of them. I can't stand you, you selfish arrogant jackass."

Draco stopped, immediately. No, that was a BIG line that Harry Potter, nor anyone else, should have ever known about, "Don't talk about my father."

Harry turned around from stomping up the steps, agile and smooth, "Which one, _Lucius_ or _Cornwell_?"

Draco was startled for a couple of seconds, "Cornwell isn't my "father.""

"He _is_ your father," Harry assured, five times louder than Draco, annoyed. "You love him like one."

"Yes, I obviously do, you daft punk," Draco bit at him, finally caught up with Harry on the top step of the staircase. "He's not my father like Lucius is."

Harry turned away, highly frustrated. Draco was gritting at his nerves, "If I thought you were telling the truth, I'd hit you so hard."

"Yes," Draco told him. "If you knew the whole story, you might be less inclined to beat me. He is my "dad," or he was, though I never even knew, only found out he was actually my father shortly after everything went... well--look, he doesn't want to be one. A father."

"You're an idiot, I swear to Merlin," Harry muttered under his breath as Draco trailed him down the hall.

"You heard him, yourself, Potter."

"Stop calling me Potter!"

Draco sort of wanted Potter to turn around and yell at him, versus being casual and amused with him. "I hated that guy."

"Like I said, you hate everyone," Harry looked over his shoulder, a little more at ease, now.

"I don't hate _everyone_, just Potter." Harry rolled his eyes. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! Sometimes I wish I could have killed him."

Harry turned around, stopped, glowering with annoyance. Was this how it was going to be? Was Draco going to always be bad-mouthing him? They couldn't talk to each other as Draco and Harry, not in the Malfoy estate. To an extent, Harry was grateful that Draco had been able to keep his mouth shut and had decided to so easily trust Harry with whatever was going on. In fact, Draco hadn't seemed too overwhelmingly surprised that something had been going on in the first place. Now, however, was the perfect opportunity to blurt out a question that had been swimming in his mind nearly every day for the last few years. It was a question that had eventually faded, because Harry had stopped caring, but the confusion was always there and had always been there. He held his arms out in front of him, his hands opened up. He stopped Draco, his hands out against Draco's chest, as it was a quite abrupt decision to stop, "Why _do_ you hate "Potter?" What did he _ever_ do to you?"

Draco smacked at Harry's wrists without a blink, "None of your business," he answered, simply, coldly, and then circled Harry.

Harry pulled his wand out, "I heard you once hexed Potter when he wasn't prepared to duel."

"Multiple times," Draco answered, but, then, when he heard laughter, he went to turn around.

Harry had tapped his back with the wand, and Draco's pants were suddenly snapped from his waist to his ankles.

Draco tumbled about five feet after tripping over his own feet, not having been able to walk. He hurriedly grasped for his pants, once he had landed and realized what had happened, sitting on his butt. Once he got a hold of them, with a grip of death in case Potter were to make them disappear or something of the sort, he looked right at Harry, facing him, "YOU HEXED MY PANTS? THAT IS _MY_ TRADEMARK MOVE!"

They were separated by about ten feet, and the laughter wasn't foreign like Judas Cliffdale's laughter had been. It was Harry Potter's laugh. It was the laugh that Draco had heard in the past, though rarely. He had heard it in joint classes where Harry was laughing with his friends. Shocked, and a little alarmed, he looked back down at his pants. He pushed himself up, with his hands, and then quickly yanked his pants up, glaring at Harry. He was too busy clutching his stomach, leaned against one of the hallway's light-colored walls, to notice that Draco was even still there.

"Malfoy!" Harry griped, hysterical, as he slipped down the wall, his stomach hurting. "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Draco pointed his wand at Harry, "Bloody arse, say you're sorry!"

Harry chuckled, as Draco approached him. Unafraid, Harry just looked up at him, smug, "Get your hips away from me; I don't do _that_."

"You didn't just say _that_," Draco drawled, withdrawing his wand from Harry's face, surprised in so man ways. He started laughing before he could remind himself that this was Harry Potter, here. He pocketed his wand, again, and started to walk backwards to allow Harry room to get up. When he did even attempt to move, still smugly proud of himself for getting Draco to laugh, Draco started to close the space again.

"Well, I mean, your wand was out, and... if you fancy boys like your father... plus the school rumors... what? I'm no Arithmetic expert, but some things could add up here!"

Draco kept laughing, until it was flowing out of his mouth, hard and fast. He slid down the wall, too.

"You never really hated... _him_, did you?"

"Yes," Draco laughed. "I did, but there was never a real reason. My issues with "him" were set before I met him; we had no chance."

Harry looked away from him and dug into his right pocket, "He had reason to not like you, though."

Knowingly, Draco turned his full attention to Harry, "I know."

They stared at each other for a long couple of minutes until Harry held out Draco's ripped letter.

Draco took it, "Thanks for picking it up," he said, under his breath, examining it. "Goodnight."

Harry pushed himself up with the help of his palms, behind him, on the wall, "Good-luck. Goodnight."

When Draco crawled into his bed, it was in the early morning hours. He pulled his thick covers over his legs but remained sitting upright. He pulled his wand out from beside him, in his bed. While the war was going on, it was always advised to have your wand next to you when you slept, just in case. Draco wasn't fighting the war, at least not yet. And, when he did fight, if he did, he wouldn't be the one fighting for good. He'd be the one people would be fighting against. Now that it was summer, his fellow classmates were able to fight the war, and he knew some of them wouldn't be back the next year at Hogwarts.

"Lumos," whispered Draco.

The light shined down onto an already opened letter that was Spell-O-Taped together.

_Dear Draco,_

_It will have been a miracle if you have opened this letter. I've been trying to perfect this all week, but I've come up short in finding that perfection. It's extremely hard to write a letter to your estranged son, who is the Minister of Magic's son, and say anything in the first place. It's hard to perfect a letter in which a situation boggles even your own mind. I've tried to send you letters before, and I know you have opened and read a few, due to that nifty Status charm that has been so popular in the last couple of years. Obviously, you didn't respond. I won't lie, I'm hurt. So, I decided to bring this letter to you, myself._

_If we don't get the chance to speak, but you do read this letter, I wish you a wonderful and happy seventeenth birthday. You're a legal wizard now, so it must be exciting. I remember when I turned seventeen. I used my broomstick, went out to get some alcoholic Butterbeer with some old school friends, and wound up crashing into Hogwarts' astronomy tower. I had to repay the school by dancing in front of the headmaster and company during the year's last feast. He thought that was enough, so I didn't have to pay for damaged bricks. Anyway, go on out and get yourself some alcoholic Butterbeer. Just stay away from Hogwarts. I'd imagine Albus Dumbledore, by now, would have quite the sense of humor about these things._

_I've just recently moved back to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. If you remember, I was married. I got divorced about a year and a half ago. My wife left me for her Yoga instructor (muggle exercise). She also left behind your little brother. I, uh, I don't know if you ever read those letters. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then, well, you have a little half brother. He's about a year and a half old. Blonde, actually, like you._

_I'd like you to have my address. Please, come by if you ever... just have an inkling, or want to meet your brother, even if you don't want to visit me. Peak through the windows, if you must. I understand. Happy birthday, Draco. My thoughts are always with you._

_17 Gemini Avenue_

_I do miss you._

_Sincerely, with my deepest affections,_

_Cornwell_

Draco placed the letter down beside him, in awe. He picked it right back up and pulled it to his eyes, hurriedly finding certain words to make sure that he had read correctly. He had a sibling? A brother? A little brother? That wasn't even... was it possible? Of course, Cornwell had been married to the woman who Draco had rarely seen in his life. He'd known that she was never any good. Draco had told Cornwell that she was horribly mean, and she was. Cornwell never claimed to not believe him, like other adults did, so he never brought her along when he was visiting or doing something with Draco. This had always made Draco feel good, because his opinion had mattered.

Draco crawled out of his covers and hurried to his closet, liberated. He threw it open and hurried in.

"Where do you think you're going at this hour?" Asked his door.

Draco pulled his sleeping T-shirt off from over his head, and dropped his pajama pants down to the floor. He grabbed a pair of black trousers from a nearby shelf, shook them out, and then stepped into them, "I'm going out," he explained, under his breath. Once he pulled his pants up, he quickly latched the button, grabbed the closest clean shirt, a robe, and slipped his feet into a pair of boots. He swished his wand over the boots and the laces immediately began tying themselves. He hurried out of the closet and towards his bedroom door. He hurried all of the way through the house until he sprung through another bedroom door. He rushed over to the bed, in the dark, and was shaking the figure under the covers at once, "Potter, Potter, wake up. Wake up!"

"What the... what are you... ARE YOU MAD? Get off'a me!"

Draco did back off, but only once he had pulled the covers right off of Harry, revealing a bare chest and a pair of black pajama pants that, even as he was laying down, covered completely over the end of his feet. For a long moment, Draco couldn't help but smirk at the pale whiteness displayed across the huge bed. And, people told Draco that HE was pale? Potter was nearly as pale-skinned as he was. He turned away, "Lumos Stolencia," he spoke quietly, to the room, which lit up all of the candles on the walls. He looked back at Harry. "Come on, we're going to Hogsmeade--well, Gemini Avenue."

Harry at up on his elbows, groggily laughing, "Mad—"

Draco rolled his eyes at the murmured mumblings, "What?"

"Mad," Harry stressed, again, and then fell back onto his massive mountain of plush pillows, in a sleepy coma. He wasn't getting out of bed for Draco Malfoy. "You're absolutely mad. Stark-_raving_ mad!" He sat up, however, with his hands supporting his body, once he saw the very complacent and cloudy expression fogging up the usually bright, glowing face. Draco had taken his place beside one of Harry's guest room's couches. He was standing in front of Harry's trunk, had thrown it open, and was carelessly rummaging through it, pulling out clothes. A shirt hit Harry in the face, so he quickly pulled it down. "Christ, Malfoy, do I even want to ask why we're going to Hogsmeade in the middle of the night?"

Draco tossed him a pair of trousers and then a plain black robe to match his own, "I'll tell you on the way!"

Harry didn't argue, just pulled the shirt on over his head and shimmied off of the bed, "I've a better idea: _tell me now_."

"I read Cornwell's letter. He's moved about five minutes from Hogsmeade—"

Harry looked over at the bewitched clock on the wall, stonewalled with epiphany, "It's three in the morning!"

"Yes, I'm aware! We'll peek through his windows—"

Harry squinted, "Are you completely oblivious to the fact that there is a _WAR going on_? It's a death wish to be out at three in the morning, Draco!"

Draco tossed Harry's boots, from beside his trunk, in front of him. They hopped around for a few seconds before falling over, dead, at his feet. He stood up straight, turning away so Harry could pull on his trousers. He walked towards one of the arch-shaped wooden windows. Potter was trying to warn _him_ about death wishes? Wasn't this the boy savior of the world? The fearless, brave, ever-strong Gryffindor? At least he wasn't being thick, and behind the obvious warning of Potter's words, the tone wasn't quite alarmed or afraid. It seemed that Potter had taken to the idea. There was no sharp denial or refusal to go. He was up and getting dressed, after all, "You're... well, you know who you are. I'm me. We'll be fine."

Harry sighed aloud, grabbing the robe from the bed, "Those are famous last words--_very_ famous last words, Malfoy."

Draco turned to him, not bothering to cover or close his eyes. He was thankful to see that Potter was fully dressed, now, and walking towards the window. Draco's eyes followed the route, and then he started to smirk, watching as the familiar moodiness of the old Harry Potter was finally making it's rightful debut. Though, Draco didn't comment. He heard Harry muttering a few obscenities at the window before he found the latch to push it open, "Famous last words or not, you seem perfectly ready to take part in this. I shouldn't be surprised. You _are_ you, after all."

"How unfortunate for us both."


	5. You Wish

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**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Five

You Wish

Harry threw open one of the huge windows. A huge gust of warm, summery, sweet-smelling breeze rushed in through the window and back through his hair. He took it all in before he turned around, his arms outstretched on either side of him, about to suggest a plan of action. As soon as he opened his mouth, he was being shoved a broomstick against his chest, which he then clasped in his hands. His lips closed together, amused, as Draco brushed by him to examine the gardens and estate grounds below, "You been thinking about this for awhile, Malfoy?"

Draco glowered at him as he pulled himself up onto his butt, backwards, onto the windowsill, "Naturally, escape plans come with the territory."

Harry glanced back at the candles in the room, "_Lumos Silencia_."

The only light, now, to guide the way out of the estate tower window, was the moon.

Draco turned to Harry as he, too, managed to get himself up on the ledge, "Ready for this, Potter?"

Harry turned around until his body was facing the grounds. It was a beautiful sight. The flowers, in the distance, seemed to be singing along with the moon and the sound of the trees humming in the late-night wind. Even from where they were, however, set somewhat far away from the front of the estate, where they both knew reporters were lined up, the thunderous sound of camera clicks and gossiping witches and wizards began to interrupt the quiet serenity of the world around them. The flowers all seemed to silence themselves, sadly, and stopped reflecting the moonbeams quite so radiantly. For that one fleeting moment, they had had their chance to take deep breaths and get themselves prepared for sneaking away from the Malfoy Estate when their world was so obviously dangerous.

Harry pulled his eyes from the gardens, hesitantly, and set them on the equally-stony Malfoy, "I think the better question is, Malfoy: are _you_ ready for this?"

"I'll take that as you thinking I can't pull my own weight, _Savior_."

Harry went to respond, but then felt himself flushing as Draco slipped onto his broom in mid-air. Regardless of how skilled in Quidditch Harry was, he had never slipped off of a four story ledge, in the middle of the night, to get onto his broomstick. For a second, Draco appeared to be having second thoughts about his straddling of the broom, but when he perfectly balanced himself out, there was a confident coolness that flushed over Harry, too. Good, Malfoy hadn't fallen to his death. If Malfoy could do it, Harry could do it.

Draco dropped a few feet in altitude to give Harry room. He moved over a little to the right and then rose up, again, when Harry had maneuvered himself onto Draco's old broom, though he was a little shaky in the process. "We're headed to Seventeen Gemini Avenue. Now," he cleared his throat, "do you have any idea where that is?"

Harry laughed.

Draco had started to rise up into the air with his broom.

Harry took the same route. He hadn't been on a broom in... months. He had been too busy with his studies and fighting in the war to play Quidditch. Most of the students, however, had had no idea where he'd been all year, most just chalking him up to be in his tower or dorm room. But he had hardly ever been at Hogwarts when he had free time. It was all spent else-where. Remembering this, as they slowly started to inch forward, neither having taken off yet, Harry squinted at the moon in the distance, high above the forest he was sure they would be taking cover by, "Malfoy, I think I have a bad feeling about this."

Draco glanced to his left, "There is something in the air, isn't there?"

Harry looked back at him, completely serious, "It seems like it. You feel it, too?"

Draco nodded, solemnly, before looking away into the night, "I definitely feel it."

There really did seem to be something brewing on the horizon that was spread out in front of them. A sense of foreboding was blowing along in the breeze, now. Draco shouldn't have been afraid, one because his father was Minister of Magic, and two because his father was Lucius Malfoy, right-hand man to Voldemort. Therefore, the only danger that he was logically in was that of some random man being startled, jumping out from behind a building and hexing him. But that seemed very unlikely, mostly because it was three in the morning and everyone was advised to stay in doors during the very troubling, hectic, frantic times in their world. But did they listen? No.

Harry sat up perfectly straight, once he was balanced, placing his hands behind his neck as he kneaded at a sore muscle, probably from when Malfoy had been shaking him, "Gemini is off Hollow-Creek road, I'm pretty sure."

Draco's left eyebrow hooked upward, "You don't _sound_ very sure of yourself."

"Right, that's your department."

"Ha, ha, ha, that's so funny," Draco bit after him, sarcastically, as Harry started to pull away. He followed suit. While the speed increased, they kept their distances close, side by side. Neither was particularly motivated to speed away from the Manor and into the dark forest's swaying thick hooded tree-tops. When Harry stopped abruptly, Draco did a one-eighty until he was facing Harry, the tips of their broomsticks about a foot apart. Because of the lack of explanation, Draco scowled, but he did hate to admit that it was somewhat forced—you know, for old time's sake. "_Yes_?"

Harry kept his eyes down on the treetop they were hovering above, "Exactly how far _is_ Hogsmeade from here?"

Draco circled him at a steady speed until he, once again, sat parallel to Harry, "Forty minutes, tops."

Harry just found the pale, almost translucent tone of skin to his right. It was obvious why they were sneaking out to go to Hogsmeade; they had no other way to go. Disapparating was dangerous to do inside of the house, and Harry had heard Narcissa discussing the big argument she had had with Lucius the night before on forbidding any sort of apparating in their home. Using Floo Powder wasn't going to work, being that it was three in the morning and most places in Hogsmeade closed at three in the _afternoon_ in recent months. Everything was suffering. Their economy, their culture, their everything. Slowly, though it was easy to see, shifts in their world had been making their way through, and quite easily, at that. War was affecting everything in a very, very negative way.

"Say, you know, _old pal_, you're a bit intense when you stare at people without saying anything."

Harry blinked, "I was listening to me inner-voice. My apologies for trying to think this insane plan through; getting killed would probably put a kink in my _other_ plans."

Draco circled him, again, looking him over with apprehension. Potter, _thinking something through_? "I'll let you try to work through this in that monstrous jungle of brains, but, honestly, what's the worst thing that—"

Harry pointed at him very suddenly, "Never, EVER, say that when you're in my company! Ever! Even impossible things become possible."

Draco stopped, surprised, "I'm amused," he stated, simply, and then started to fly down to the treetops.

Harry, who had given in to the adventure at hand, followed right behind him, at ease, until they were swooping above, around, and sometimes below, the dark treetops that were, they hoped, hiding them from being seen by anyone. They didn't want to be seen sneaking out in the middle of the night and have to answer questions the next day. This was something Draco needed to do, and he hadn't really given Harry the option of turning it down. Whatever had been in Cornwell's letter had made Draco Malfoy light up like a Christmas light, persistent and determined to get himself to Hogsmeade in the middle of the dead summer night, "Amused at what?"

Draco grinned as he stopped. When Harry caught up, they kept a steady side-by-side balance, "You," he answered, honestly. "When you say arrogant things, you come off so sincere. Drives me bloody insane." How Potter did it, Draco didn't think he would ever know. He threw his right palm out, flipped it upside down, as if to start in making a point. But, at the laughter in response to his feminine hand gestures, he fisted his fingers. "That's one of the reasons I hate you. You're more arrogant than I am—"

Harry's eyes were ballooned as he purposely, forcefully, bumped against Draco, "You THINK I'm arrogant."

"I _know_ you're arrogant," Draco corrected, easily, unimpressed, as he regained composure on his broom. Inside, he was laughing. Potter had just knocked him? This was the first time they were EVER riding side-by-side when they weren't on opposing or challenging sides. "It'd be impossible for you not to have a big head of some fashion."

Harry chuckled, "Whatever you say, Malfoy, but next time you want to try and diagnose me—"

"I'm not trying to diagnose you, don't be so defensive."

Harry sped up in front of Draco, grinning at the conversation's change of tone. Their speed was fast, now, so fast that their black robes were swishing behind them, whipping like tiny branches in a furious storm, and their hair was blown all of the way back. Yet, even at their speed, the conversation was easy to keep. They both were naturals on brooms and had been training for years. Talking and riding at speeds upward of sixty or seventy miles per hour was not a challenge, "Next time you try to diagnose me," he started, again, as if Draco had never interrupted, "at least be somewhat familiar with who I _actually am_ and not who you _believe_ I am. From the outside, sure, I might have accomplished a lot, mostly by pure dumb-luck and a bit of instinct, but there's a lot you don't know that would deflate anyone's ego."

"That's utter bullshit if I ever heard utter bullshit, and, believe me, I have!" But, then, curious, he finally growled. "Okay, like what?"

"The fact that I'm avenging the deaths of my parents, who died for me to kill somebody else--that's kind of a buzzkill?"

"Stop this, Potter; I'm starting to enjoy your self-deprecating nature."

"Again, my apologies," Harry offered at Draco's genuine distress. "Every victory I've had has ended up costing someone something. In the beginning, it was me. As time went on, it was somebody else, and then two people, and then three, and then hundreds—and those were all the closest and most important people to me. I'm fighting a battle that I can't win, or haven't yet won, and every step I take forward, the cost of it, no matter how good the cause is, sends me ten steps back—death, as I said earlier, is the worst thing that can happen to a man or anyone, at that. It warps your mind, and when it happens to you, especially when you're young and at certain pivotal times in your life... you just start to think with an older mind--I'm sure you know."

"Compliments, too, involving death? Treating me as a tortured equal? Potter, stop it. You're turning me on severely."

Harry rolled his eyes and ignored him this time, "Certain careless things are wiped out from under you—how can you have a big head when you're the source of miserable losses for all kinds of families? Or the cause of the deaths of those you love and who loved you? One day, I'm going to be on my death bed, whether it's tonight, or in a year, or in fifty years, and wonder if it was all worth it—even if something evil goes away, replaced with another—will it be worth the deaths and sorrow I've caused? Will it be worth the sorrow that I'm constantly feeling? I have no time to have a big head, Malfoy. I'm too busy trying to ignore myself for that to even happen."

"Underneath all of that, though, this reasonable nonsense you're talking," and he tried not to smile when he heard the genuinely amused laughter, "you're arrogant."

Harry, giving up, reached his left hand out and smacked Draco's arm, fed-up, "You're impossible, what a prat."

Draco stayed behind as Harry sped up, keeping his eyes lowered in confusion. Even worse that thinking that Harry was arrogant was thinking that Harry was sincere about not being arrogant. Damn the bastard, he was always so damn sincere. Always on his big white horse, saving the world without any arrogant flaws, without any true-blue confidence. Why was he so sincere, anyway? Draco knew, deep down, that the Harry Potter he had grown up resenting was not the real Harry Potter. He was a fiction, a fiction seen from the outside. But, despite all of that, there was still something about Harry that Draco did not like. He had never been able to place it. But it was there. It had always been there.

About ten minutes later, after deafening silence between them but not from the trees, Harry skidded to a stop and turned around, "Why do you WANT me to be so arrogant? What's wrong with me just being me? You say my name like it's some sort of disease, like you're ashamed to spit it out. It has always been that way. It's like you WANT me to be someone you can hate."

"Oh, Christ, Potter," Draco drawled, stopping, too, beside him. He sighed. "Is this really the time?"

Harry's eyes just followed his every expression, trying to read through it, "I don't get it, Malfoy. Why did you even ask me along? You hate me."

"I don't hate you, stop being an insecure, poncy twit—you damn well know I don't hate you," Draco bit at him, this time, in a deeper voice than he had yet to use around Harry Potter. He was serious, now. Serious like he hadn't been before, about Potter, even though the events of the day had been MOST serious, indeed. The way Harry was speaking, he was clearly annoyed and frustrated with the way things were going. But Draco did not hate Harry, and he wasn't going to play it off like he did. "If I hated you, I wouldn't have asked you to come with me, you idiot."

Harry continued to frown, not moving, though Draco tried to get him to, "Well, then, maybe _I _hate _you_."

Draco's full lips, in surprised horror, opened up, wide, though he hadn't a word to say. Harry's still slightly unfamiliar eyes flashed, suddenly, and he started to pull away on his broom. Stunned to that very spot in the air, stuck there like a horn to a Pin-The-Horn-On-The-Dragon, the words shot through him. The epiphany on Potter's voice was the only reason that it cut so deep inside of him. He turned his broom, angrily, sharply, in about a second, and looked behind him to where Harry was already about sixty feet away on the track back to the Manor. Potter was a manipulative bastard. He leaned forward and sprang off in the same direction. When he caught up to Harry, he reached to his right and gave him a prompt shove, hand full of material. "You have no right to hate me!"

"Yes, I do!" Harry shook him off. Really, he was just trying to prove a point. Draco seemed to understand when people did that. "I never liked you. I never wanted to be your friend, did I? I have REASONS to hate you, and I—"

Draco shoved him, once more, even harder, but Harry didn't falter or wobble, "You said you—"

"No, _you _said you never had reasons to hate _me_, Malfoy! I still don't like you; I'm not here by choice."

Draco halted his broom, his jaw clenched and his cheek bones feeling prominent even to himself. Harry stopped, too, but he wasn't apologetic. He was very serious. His face, or the face of Judas Cliffdale, was daunting and intense. Though, his broom was slowly inching backward. He was waiting for Draco to say something to him, for some reason, which Draco did happen to appreciate. But he pulled his own eyes away from the unfamiliar, dark, lusty brown ones and fixed them down onto his hands, "Fine, then just fucking go. In fact, why don't you find another family and pull the shades down over their eyes?"

"I would, gladly, if that were possible."

Draco kept his eyes down on the treetops, "I used to be a real jerk, Potter." There, so what if he slurred it out? It was a start, God-damnit!

"You still are a real jerk," Harry immediately snapped back at him, without wasting a second.

Draco coughed a laugh, disheartened, "Take your own advice. Know me before you judge me, Potter."

"You've been the source of too many of my frustrations in the past to just overlook... _everything_."

"Yeah, _in the past_," Draco repeated, over Harry's voice, interrupting him from continuing. "Things have changed. Surely we can agree on that."

"Judging by the last five minutes, things haven't changed. You still make me want to kill myself."

Draco looked up at him, suddenly laughing. Harry glared, so he stopped. "Likewise, jackass."

Harry slowly inched backwards again, "Good luck, Malfoy; don't get yourself killed."

"Ah, you git, can't you just come with me?" Draco was disappointed. It was true; Draco hated Harry for no reason. Harry hated him rightfully. "I don't want to go alone, and if you don't come with me, well... well, then fuck you, Potter, hard! Hard and ungently!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh while Malfoy flushed. He'd really had no intention of leaving Malfoy to do this by himself. He had, after all, pretty willingly come along in the first place. He watched Malfoy's disappointment overcome him before he chided aloud and teased him, "_Fuck you! Fuck you!_ That's all you ever say. Fuck you, _I'm Draco Malfoy_. Fuck you, I'll do it, 'cause I'm Draco Malfoy. Fuck me, girls, I'm Draco Malfoy! Fuck me, boys, I'm Draco Malfoy! Fuck me, Professor Snape, I'm Draco Malfoy! Fuck yourself, Draco; _you're Draco Malfoy_! Fuck the world, they all want me, because _I'm_ Draco Malfoy! Oh, fuck me, _fuck me_," Harry suddenly taunted, completely out of nowhere, imitating Draco's voice and incorporating mannerisms that Draco Malfoy was famous for, down to the graceful hand movement and the sudden middle finger popping up out of no where. He put his hands on his sides, quickly, and squeezed them, tightly pressing his lips together as Draco stopped, about five feet away, his back turned to Harry. He was completely immobile. "Fuck me, I'm a gigantic slut! Fuck you, Malfoy! You've put me through so much shit for absolutely no fucking reason. You could be the bigger person, here, and want to put the past in the past, but I'm not that forgiving. You don't have a reason to despise me, or even DISLIKE me, but I have every reason in the damned book to feel that way about you." When Harry got into emotional distress, he wasn't afraid to pull out the "fuck" he usually kept contained.

Still, Draco didn't turn around.

Awkwardly, Harry stared at his back, and, at last, twitched.

"Go on, then." Draco slowly moved forward, and then turned around to Harry, blankly, "Leave. Go on, Potter. Leave."

Harry shifted his body, awkwardly, "You leave." Weak, Potter, weak.

Without a word, Draco turned back around, his face sharply angled in fury, and took off.

Harry clutched his head between his palms, perfectly stabilized, as Draco disappeared into the dark forest below. BLOODY... that hadn't been the way things should have gone. Oh, they were definitely going. Going, going, nearly gone. Harry reaffirmed the knowledge, mentally, that he basically, essentially, had to pretend to be Judas Cliffdale, completely, and not Harry Potter. That meant treating Draco like a friend and letting their rough past slide onto the back-burner. He was only a day or two in and failing miserably. He needed time to adjust, and so did Malfoy.

By the time Draco was spewing all of the his furious anger of resentment and hurt into the quiet air around him, some thirty minutes later, Hogsmeade, surprisingly still lit with windows, was beautifully approaching. He swooped down, having silenced himself, to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He swung his right leg over the broom, once his left foot had touched the ground, and hopped off. He grabbed the broom and took off, running, with his robe pulled over his head, for the edge of a building. In the distance, he could hear, there was some fighting going on, outside of a small pub, and Ministry officials were patrolling the place with their wands tightly clutched at their sides or in front of them. They were there, Draco knew, because they were needed. Even Hogsmeade, always the source of wholesome family fun, was now dangerous for even adult wizards.

Fifteen feet away, he heard a snap of twigs, so he looked over, nervously.

Out of the forest stormed a figure. Draco was being pelted with a broomstick seconds later, rather passionately, at that.

Harry withdrew the stick, silently, and stood beside Draco, annoyed.

Draco turned around, fully, pulling his back from the wall. He stood right in front of the young man opposite of him. He had had no idea that Potter had followed him, and, considering the short time that Harry had landed after him, there was an excellent chance that he'd heard every foul word that Draco had muttered about him. But Draco didn't regret his words. He was mad. He wasn't even going to TRY to work with Potter now. He'd go along with it, because Potter was obviously on an important mission, but he didn't want Potter to be part of his life. He didn't even want to acknowledge the kid, anymore. He threw his hand in Harry's face, his index fingertip pointed strongly right between his eyes, tense, "I thought I asked you to leave?"

"Don't be dense. I wasn't going to let you come here alone, jackass."

Draco blinked, "I'm a big boy, Potter, I can do this on my own."

Harry clasped his hand over Draco's mouth, "Would you stop calling me Potter?" He hissed, angrily, looking around with a rightful paranoia. "It's _Cliffdale_!"

Draco slapped his hand away, "Don't touch me. I'm a giant slut, after all; I might have to fuck you if you touch me."

Harry rolled his eyes, "Bet you'd like that." Malfoy stared at him. "It'd be a bit of glory for you, wouldn't it? Fucking me and all, since I'm _so _powerful."

Draco shoved him. Harry's back hit against the brick wall, hard and silent, "I swear to God."

Harry shoved him back, really hard, charging forward with easily-accessible aggression that needed release.

Draco tumbled down onto the grass and did a half somersault, backward. When the tumble ended, and he was sitting on his butt, his jaw clenched, his body aching, and extremely horrified, he stared at Harry with dark eyes. After all of their duels, it was like their wands didn't matter anymore. It wasn't about wands. It wasn't about fair dueling. They had been shoving each other since the very moment Harry had admitted who he was. It was physical, now. There were hormone issues that dueling wasn't going to solve. And, if Harry fucking Potter wanted to have a right-punching bag for his anger, he had another thing coming.

Draco stood up as Harry approached him. He seemed like an entirely different person. Though his face was Judas's Cliffdales, Draco had been seeing Harry Potter the whole entire night. But, now, it didn't seem like it was Harry Potter lying underneath the facade. It was someone else. It was someone hard. Someone ready to have it out. Vibes of pure aggression were just bouncing off of him, and Draco suddenly didn't want to be a part of where the situation was going. He backed away, not at all ashamed, "Take another step closer, and I'll—"

"You'll what? What will the great Draco Malfoy do? Hex me? Punch me?" Harry asked, testing his boundaries.

Draco pocketed his wand, "No," he simply replied, as Harry stopped, "I'll kiss you." Potter froze. "Ah, works like a charm."

"You are repelling," Harry suddenly laughed. It was a real laugh. What! How in the world did Malfoy have the ability to have him so completely angry one second, and then laughing with honest surprise and intrigue the next? It was a splendid gift. A little scary, and somewhat disconcerting, but definitely useful. It was just the way Malfoy was, somehow. It had to do with his charm. He had just put his wand away, patted his pocket, coolly, and looked at back at Harry without any sort of apprehension of hesitance with what was going on. If there was one thing Harry had ever truly known about Draco Malfoy, was that he was excellent with covering his true emotions. "Anyway, fuck off. Yeah! Yeah, fuck off! Yeah. Do that. Fuck off, Malfoy!"

Draco, overcome with extreme amazement, laughed simply, "What?" He cocked an eyebrow, then squinted. "That was weak. Quite frankly, I'm a little disappointed in you."

Harry ignored him, mostly because he was right, "Gemini is about five minutes on broom, I think. Fifteen by foot."

Draco stared at him, "Go _home_, Potter, would you?"

"I don't really have one of those right now." He paused. "Not that you care that I shared that with you, but that's how it is."

Draco, frustrated, clasped his hands over the back of his head. His hair was still perfectly smoothed back with Spell-O-Gel for the sleek-headed-professional. The box insisted that Draco was a sleek-headed-individual, so it was only natural that Draco had to pick up the product and continue to use it—and not sparingly. He dropped his arms down, helpless, silently waiting for something to happen or for when of them to speak up. But Potter didn't even seem to be thinking about saying something, so Draco did, "Ten minutes ago, you were expressing extreme hate for my entire existence. You're the last person I want to be around, especially right now. _Leave_."

"I can't leave you," Harry hissed back at him, walking out from behind the building they were sheltered by. "And I don't hate you."

Draco's body boiled with confusion, "Do you hate me or don't you? Tell me, now, and let's get it over with; this is too much for me to deal with."

Harry turned to him, in the empty street, now. He was serious, but even with the serious tone, the conversation was so completely calm that he desperately wanted to laugh again, "I don't hate you, Malfoy." He held his hand over his chest in earnest, even. "I've never hated you, all right? I was just giving you what you wanted."

Draco, convinced, due to the honesty of the situation, smirked, "You read me well, I suppose, but swear on that kiss? Of your hatred, of course."

"I swear, Malfoy, on your _flamboyant tendencies_ and confusingly flirtatious ways of distracting people, I never hated you."

Ten minutes later, Draco randomly stopped, in the middle of a deserted, dirt road. He had been leading the way towards Gemini Avenue, which they could see in the distance. It was the only little lane that they had yet to descend upon in their direction. The only sound of the night had been that of their footsteps on the dark beaten dirt road, "You make me want to touch men, Potter."

Harry stopped abruptly. What just happened? He looked around, with a wrinkled forehead, "I think I just missed something."

Draco shook his head from side to side as Harry rubbed his eyes, worriedly, "No, I was just blurting out my feelings."

Harry watched him, his eyes squinted in hard laughter, though he kept quiet. Great? He made Draco Malfoy want to touch men? How did Malfoy come up with this stuff? When the platinum head was seen gaining distance a few seconds later, his own train of thought sped right out of his head. Malfoy was blatantly admitting he was attracted to Harry—no, _Judas_? No, Harry? No, Judas? No! What the!... really, he hadn't admitted anything. What the hell? Harry stepped up his own pace to keep on track. Boys didn't just go blurting that kind of thing out to each other, especially not those with pasts like his with Malfoy, "What's the deal with you, anyway?"

Draco smirked to himself, "Oh, yes, the question inquiring minds of Hogwarts boys want to know. _Are the rumors true_? You tell me, Potter; put your detective skills to work and let me have a laugh until we get there."

Harry frowned, catching up to Draco, once more, truly intrigued with this new topic, "Well, you do flirt with more males than females, I think." His hands became the balances on a scale. "Then again, you could just be more comfortable around men than women, due to your breeding." His other hand raised. "But you did just tell me that I make you want to touch men. I'm not sure how to justify that one." It wasn't something that Harry had necessarily thought about in the past. But there had been rumors about Draco, mostly ones that he and Ron had chuckled at.

Draco was just very... pretty? Yes, pretty. And, charming. He was a magnetic person, attractive. And he had the habit of openly flirting and using his charm with boys rather than girls, didn't he? He didn't do it in an obnoxious way, either. It was just natural for him. It was hard to look at Draco Malfoy and see him as anything but a woman-loving man-whore, as he was quite the man-whore at Hogwarts, but... though he always had had girlfriends, everyone could see how easily he chatted up boys, often playing coy and seductive in an open arena for on-looking eyes.

"You're either straight and extremely confident with your sexuality enough to tease about it, flamboyantly bisexual, or shyly gay."

Draco looked at him, in disbelief; had he had water in his mouth, it'd have been everywhere, now, but in his mouth, "Potter, are you _kidding_ me? Are you asking about my sexual orientation? Now, here?"

Harry laughed, genuinely, at the response, "No, seriously. Educate me on the ways of Draco Malfoy."

"Straight, to appease you," Draco answered, in spite of himself, under his breath. "I would snog a boy, though, given the right planetary alignment and whatnot."

Harry nodded along, trying not to laugh, "Right, _right_, snog a boy. Drunk, perhaps?"

"Why, Potter?" He smirked as he came to a halt. "Are you _planning something_?"

Harry, flushed, turned around, starting to feel appalled. Though, he suddenly became amused, "Again, Malfoy: _you wish_."

Draco looked him over. Wait a second, "Potter, what's your deal? You've never had a steady gal-fuck; inquiring minds are inquiring."

"Gal-fuck? That's classy, Malfoy, really," Harry retorted, coolly. "Straight, though. I don't have a lot of free time for dating, if you haven't noticed."

Draco nodded his head along, humoring the answer, "What about Judas Cliffdale? Straight, gay, bisexual? Can you tell?"

"Straight," Harry laughed, thinking this over. "Actually, I don't know."

"I know," Draco responded, honestly. "Well, no, I don't, but I've heard things from my mother's friends and my aunt in France."

Harry, sensing the tone of silent delight, stopped, once more, and quickly squinted. Uh oh; if Cliffdale was questionable in the orientation department, would Harry be affected? Would his body react to men? He had no idea, so he asked, almost desperately, "Well?"

Draco shrugged, then, too coolly, before sharing a sly grin with a wall, "Rumor has it he was snogging Draco Malfoy when they were five."

"You almost had me," Harry responded, moodily, and turned away. "I should have known you'd turn that around for your own pleasure."

Draco, surprised, watched him walk away, again, laughing madly, "But, seriously, it was on the down-low. There is talk that you and your "best friend" from back home, JC something, are actually more than friends. Not that surprising, really. They're both gorgeous." Brown eyes were laughing right back into his own. Draco immediately caught himself. "Well, you are. Not YOU, Potter, but... well, yes, _you_. You, as in Judas."

"Nice save, but I happen to know neither one of "me" was hard to look at."

Draco didn't respond, only grinning silently to himself and intently, happily, watching the familiar swagger of Harry Potter. He had to hand it to Potter, he was doing an excellent job of avoiding asking the question about Draco wanting to touch men over Harry Potter. Draco had just blurted it out, but Harry hadn't acknowledged it which was probably in the best-interest for both of them, "Speaking of best friends, you and the Weasel ever fuck?"

"No, you pervert," Harry answered, absolutely appalled by the insinuation. Just... no! He blocked out the mental images. "He's like my _brother_. Gross."

"Interesting; you denied the _partner,_ but not the charge."

"Malfoy," Harry sighed, and turned to him, "why are we even talking about this? What does it matter? I'm not gay. _Or_ bisexual. I'm straight, all right? There is no proof otherwise."

Draco laughed, "That's what every man thinks until I get him drunk and confuse his dick senseless, Detective."

"You're more sadistic than I had ever imagined you to be, Malfoy," Harry exclaimed, laughing emptily into the beautiful air. "Sadly, by now, I've seen your power of persuasion on Zabini and most of the Ravenclaw males, so I'm forced to believe you." It was true; Draco Malfoy was a sexually-energizing magnet. Straight or not, Harry couldn't deny that Draco was probably the best-looking male he had ever seen in his entire life. He was aesthetically pleasing. His features were stunning and sharp, but not overly sharp. His face was thin but so perfectly angled and structured, and he had cheekbones that could rival anything, and win, just by existing. It would almost be a crime for anyone to put a dent or mark on Draco Malfoy's face. It was flawless in every possible way. "I always wondered why Snape got flustered in the middle of class. Did you two often get drunk together, or was it just a rare, occasional thing where you both needed some bony and evil Slytherin sex?"

"Okay, that's a boundary," Draco replied immediately. "Snape was like an uncle to me. That's just... wrong."

Harry started to walk backwards, facing Draco, now, and grinning smugly, "Like you haven't thought about it."

Draco pushed him, lightly, out of instinct, "I don't even want to go there."

Harry laughed, quietly, nodding his head as he turned around. They fell into step together, "Okay, so that's a boundary. I'll keep away from that, as to not offend you anymore than necessary."

Draco's eyes fixed, softly, onto Harry, trying not to make it obvious, and he grinned, "You sure you're not _a little_?"

Harry rolled his eyes, "I like breasts."

Draco covered his mouth.

Harry turned to him, completely taken aback by the amount of hysterical laughter now present, by Malfoy's completely lit face; he looked nearly totally different. His cheekbones disappeared into big round red cheeks and his teeth gleamed from the moonlight, "_What_?"

Draco clasped his hand over Harry's shoulder, "Mate, Harry Potter just said breasts. Merlin!"

Harry shoved him, jerked himself away, and continued walking, "That's what they're called, arse. You're real mature."

Draco continued to laugh, following with happy tears in his eyes, "No, don't be offended, Potter! You're so ridiculously and naively adorable!" Potter scoffed even more angrily. Draco was having a hard time finding Potter anything but highly entertaining. "It's just funny hearing you say it... _breasts_," he imitated, and then laughed even louder at the sound of himself saying the word just as Harry had said it. The way he spoke, and then how he said the word, it just brought a fit of laughter into Draco's entire night. He hurried along the dirt road until he was beside Harry again. He draped his arm around Harry's shoulders, heavily. Their eyes immediately locked, for different reasons. A hard-core smirk shot onto Draco's lips, warming up his mouth with determination. Look at that face; Judas Cliffdale had nothing on Harry Potter, though. Potter had been a good-looking fellow, looked even better with a little color and a flush of embarrassment on his face. "Oh calm down, Potter." He looked back around. What exactly did determination upon his lips mean, anyway, in proximity to Potter's? Looking around, quickly, for a memory-erasing spell, he discovered a raggedy sign in the near distance. "Look, Gemini Avenue; this is it."

Harry followed Draco up a tiny little dirt road. Little tiny houses, almost shacks, lined the road. It was quaint, pretty, and there were lots of little gardens and plants.

Draco stopped, finally seeming to notice this, "This is where he lives?"

Harry gave his back a small push to move along, "Don't be a snob, Malfoy. Not everyone can live in a Manor."

"I'm not being a snob. It's just... a shack."

Harry have him a one-handed clap on the lower back, "It's a rather nice shack, though, isn't it? It's small, but nice."

Draco's eyes lowered and then slowly rose back to Harry, curiously. All right, point taken. He turned his eyes away from Harry and set them back onto the vision of the road they had just turned onto. There weren't too many of them, but Seventeen seemed far away. Not physically, just mentally. Excited, though he knew he probably wasn't even going to see anything worth the trip, he started jogging. When he looked over his shoulder, the seventeen year old former-best friend and current-enemy of his was at his heels, pulling his hood on over the back of his head. Draco followed suit.

At long last, Draco Malfoy was standing in front of a window, squeezed behind a rose-bush.

Through the window, he could see a man laying on his back across a couch. A small boy was laying on top of his chest, sound asleep, with a thumb in his mouth.

Harry stayed behind Draco about two feet, silently. All it took was one glance at the little boy to get an answer about why they were there. Draco's nose was pressed up to the window, and his hands were gently sprawled on either side of his face against the glass panes. There were only a couple of candles still lit inside of the house, but it was enough light to see that Draco Malfoy had an identical little half-brother. His little face was turned in the direction of the window. He snuck up closer to Draco until the front of his left shoulder was pressing against Draco's back. He leaned in closer, too, to examine the face, "Wow."

Draco was in complete awe, speechless, gaping soundlessly at the little boy. He was beautiful _beyond words_. Draco had always been stubborn to admit a child could ever be more beautiful than he had been, due to his own vanity, but this child, this beautiful, small little toddler had a face... that was just so heavenly, so precious, so adorable. His features were round and sweet. His skin tone was glowing. His little eyelashes seemed dark, however, though his hair was as white as snow. Was this even possible? To have a brother? To have his father disappear into thin air, to know that their world was in pure panic at that moment, to have Harry Potter die and them come back as one of his oldest friends, the Cliffdales being murdered, and Cornwell coming back in his life? Was it real? Such a day, he never could have even dreamed up.

The pad of Draco's fingertip softly rubbed over the tiny little nose, in the distance, against the cold window-glass.

"Malfoy, he looks just like you," Harry breathed so quietly.

Draco's nail-tip was now tracing the tiny, sweet nose, "He's perfect," he murmured. "Absolutely perfect."

Across the room, there was movement. Draco pressed his nose even closer so he could see better. The little boy's eyes had opened. Whereas Draco's eyes were light like his mother's, the little boy shared the same intense, dark eyes as Cornwell. Even from the distance that separated them, Draco could see the intense features. On such a little boy? Dear lord, he was precious. The eyes blinked to a close, again, and the little boy's thumb was in his mouth, and he turned his head away from them, probably not having noticed or thought anything of two dark figures peaking in through the windows.

Harry kept looking around behind them. Finally, he grumbled with anxiety, "Come on, we should get out of here."

Draco turned around, "We can go."

Harry stepped backward, "Good, then let's go."

Draco glanced back in the window, but then jumped. He and Harry collided.

The little blonde boy was standing in front of the window, his head titled. He giggled at the jump.

Draco immediately approached the window, and he smiled before he could stop himself, "Hi!"

"Er, he can't hear you, Malfoy."

Draco ignored him.

The little boy waved at Draco with sparkling, beautiful eyes that were shooting sprockets of information to him. Towering over the small frame, in the window, was the tall Cornwell. He had his arms wrapped over his chest, and his dark eyes were narrowed in fury, leaving Draco gaping at him in confusion. However, he disappeared from the window, leaving only the little boy present. Draco pressed his hands back onto the window and watched, in awe, as the little boy put his tiny, sweet little palm against his. Sure, the window separated their palms from touching, but it felt like they were! He smiled against the glass of the window. He couldn't help it! He had to know everything! First, of course, his brother's name! Then his birthday! Then his favorite ice-cream treat! Then his favorite game! Then his favorite mannerisms! Then his favorite baby food! Then his favorite lullaby. Then... everything! He had to know!

Cornwell emerged from the corner of the house, hissing at them, "What do you think you're doing out here in the middle of the night?"

Draco's cheeks felt warm at the strict, strained tone of the voice, "I was only just—"

"You were only just trying to get yourself killed!" Cornwell grabbed him by the front of his robe, and then Harry, and pushed them both to walk ahead of him. They did, and quickly, looking at each other. Harry was grinning, because he knew exactly what was going to happen, and Draco seemed to have no idea what was going on. Somehow, only a few seconds later, they hurried up a couple of dark wooden steps and the enclosed themselves in the house.

Cornwell locked the door before he turned around, "It is FOUR in the morning. Are you OUT of your mind, Draco? Coming here in the middle of night when there is a WAR going on? And you, Judas? You know better, better than anyone." Alert stung Harry again. Again, he chalked it off as paranoia. "Are you purposely trying to give me a heart-attack? Jesus _Christ_, where are your heads?" He asked, his voice booming over the entire room, but not meanly. He was pacing in a small circle, staring at Draco for an answer without so much as blinking or having his eyelashes falter a bit closer together. He stopped, crossed his arms over his chest, and clenched his jaw, hard, to the left. But, at Draco's silent, speechless expression, his face relaxed. "Thick-headed, you are."

Draco looked at Harry, his face pale. He felt horrible and ashamed, so he lowered his eyes, "Am not."

A little being threw itself onto Draco's feet which immediately cut through the current tension.

Draco blinked as strong, carefree laughter filled the room. It was Cornwell and Harry. Both of them. But Draco's eyes were entranced onto the little creature below him. He was small with the sweetest face that had ever existed in the world. He leaned down, not hesitant about doing so, until he was squatting with his elbows bent on his legs. His right hand pulled the hood from over the top of his head as he stared at the little boy. He hadn't appeared to be shy, at first, what, with throwing himself at Draco's feet. But, now, he was on his own little feet, with huge sweet brown eyes. They were so large that it was almost uncharacteristically human. They were so sweet. Perfect. Just... perfect. He was so innocent. So filled with love and preciousness. Still taken of all words, Draco gently touched the tip of his index finger to the small, glowing cheek.

The little boy smiled, shyly, and looked back at Cornwell.

Then, he looked back at Draco, and touched his cheek, too, in return. His eyes locked on Draco's hair.

Draco nearly died as the little thing giggled at him, but he didn't pull his eyes away, "What's his name?"

The little boy cutely started to play with Draco's bright hair, almost as if entranced by it.

"Dickinson," Cornwell answered quietly.

Draco smiled as the little thing looked right up into his own eyes, "Dickinson, huh? I'm Draco."

The little eyes lit up, "Draco!" He looked back at Cornwell, with a shriek of pure excitement, and then immediately turned back to Draco's startled self with the same look. He jumped right into Draco's arms, onto his chest. By default, as he had been wanting to hug the small thing close, as if to make sure he was real, Draco's arms were already tightly wrapped right back around the little boy. Dickinson had repeated his name so flawlessly, like he'd heard it a million times. Sure, there was a little baby-lisp, but he seemed to know exactly that "Draco" was Draco. To his delight, the little thing just stayed against him, gazing up at Draco like Draco was gazing at him, in awe.

Draco had a brother, and a startlingly, almost uncanny, resemblance to prove it.

"Does your mother know you're here?"

Harry turned to Cornwell, as Draco wasn't even mentally in the room with them, anymore. Draco had stood up, now, with Dickinson sitting on his left hip, holding him. They were examining each other. He looked between them, oddly, and then looked away and back to Cornwell. He was, too, watching between the two platinum-headed... brothers. Remembering this, and that this was the first time Draco was meeting a brother he never knew he had, he took a couple of steps backward, into the dark of the room, leaving them in the light to discuss and examine each other. This had to be a big moment for all of them.

Harry wished he were invisible.

Draco touched the side of the small face below his, once more, "I think you look more like a Dickie."

Dickinson rested his cheek against Draco's shoulder.

It was only fifteen seconds later of awkward silence between Cornwell and Draco, when they realized "Dickie" had fallen right to sleep against Draco. He mewed a small little moan of content as Draco started to walk him back over towards the couch, unaware of what to do. It was too much to process in one visit or one day. But was it that hard to accept? No. He had a brother. A real brother. And, his father, his birth father, was freaking out, though silently, only feet away. It was like he had just regained his father back, after a long absence, and then discovered, out of the blue, that he, always having hated being an only child, was... not an only child. He placed the little bundle of white shorts and a white T-shirt down onto the couch, carefully, but he didn't pull himself right back up.

Smiling, he pressed a small kiss against the warm, rosy cheek. It was just natural. There was a connection there already. A little blonde-headed, familiar-faced baby had already bonded right to Draco's hard-to-penetrate little bubble of heart. It was a small place inside of him, actually, and there was a series of obstacles and a personal bubble that had to be dealt with, first. But, Dickie skipped right through that as soon as his eyes had blinked open only the few minutes earlier, "You're cuter than I was, you know."

Dickie, sound asleep, didn't answer.

But Draco could've sworn that he saw a baby-smirk. Delighted, he snapped himself back up, "Dickie."

"Dickinson, if you ask his mother."

Draco turned his eyes to Cornwell, unable to stop his rarely genuine smile, "_Dickinson_ when he runs for Minister. Dickinson to his father. Dickinson on his Hogwarts Finality papers. _Dickie_ to his older brother, thank-you _very_ much," he easily whispered, gliding back towards the taller, darker man. He stopped, abruptly, remembering where he was. He was just so excited to have even seen Dickie that the rest of the early morning was going to, undoubtedly, be spent in absolute, blithering happiness. He turned to Harry, with a grin. "See him, Pot... head?"

Harry's eyes erupted into furious fires, "What's this, Draco? Replacing myself for Harry Potter, _again_, or accusing me of being a pot head? That hurts."

Draco forced an at-ease smile, and then smirked a little too hard at the sarcastic tone, "You wish."

Harry walked closer toward the two men, "Do I? I thought you hated Harry Potter."

Cornwell chuckled, "If by hated you mean obsessively loved for two years, at least that I remember, yes."

Draco had had his mouth open to respond to Harry, but it never closed. Words had escaped him.

Harry blinked, dropping his arms from his chest by accident. He laughed... and LOUDLY, "Wait, _what_?"

Draco didn't answer, just looked at Cornwell, flabbergasted. He turned away, furious. God-damn.

Harry, in complete and utter shock and awe, followed the figure with his eyes, "What, were you a _little gay_, too?"

Draco turned around to him, without saying a word, and he crossed his arms over his chest. What was this here? Draco MALFOY being the one to turn away from a verbal confrontation like a little coward? Didn't he have some witty comeback to slap Harry with? Where was the defensive denial? Where was the cool, drawling, dragging sarcastic tone? Where was the infamous Malfoy and/or Black smirk, and what was this thing going on with his face that resembled that of honest human anger? It was a serious look—it was a look that Harry had never even imagined could EXIST on the always complacent face of _Draco Malfoy_. He was obviously quite angry, but Harry was too enthralled to let it go.

"Wow, that's quite a twist from the tabloid reports." Unbelievable!

"Oh, shut your mouth before I do it for you, Cliffdale. I bet you feel so ridiculously smug right now, you asshole. Just stop smiling. Now."

Harry snorted, finding confidence. He started over towards Draco, slowly but surely, "Why would _I_ feel smug?"

"It's such a turn-off, you and smug. Hey, back off."

Harry chuckled, more amused than he had been in the last three weeks. Malfoy was playing keep away with himself! Every time Harry took a step closer, Draco stepped two steps backwards, "What, are you scared of boys _suddenly_?"

Draco looked at Cornwell, apologetically, "I've been trying to convince Judas that I _hated_ Potter."

Harry turned to Cornwell, too, as Draco put a couch between them, stepping behind it, "Details on this obsession with Harry Potter, do you have any? Draco hates talking about Potter. He gets choked up so... easily. Bless your heart, Draco," he sighed, dramatically, his hands held behind his back. Malfoy had NEVER been skittish, not ever, since Harry had met him. He knew, at that moment, as he watched Draco start to fiddle with his hands, that he was going to be seeing a whole new side to Draco Malfoy. He was going to be seeing the human. "Bless your poor destroyed little heart. The bloke died and you never got to confess your love. How _sad_ for you."

Draco laughed, loudly, nervously, as he stepped behind Cornwell, behind the couch. Potter was being... kind of sexy. What? _NO_! He took his frustration out on Cornwell with a tiny kick, angry at him for having opened his mouth.

Cornwell gasped, quietly, out of no where, and gave Draco a small, playful shove.

Draco laughed, warmly.

The room paused for a second. Harry had never heard Draco laugh like that, ever. But he did stop very quickly. He squinted his eyes between them, not at all surprised. Side be side, Draco and Cornwell were quite a sight. How had anyone, in the inner society, looked at Cornwell, and then Draco, and not SEEN, flat-out, who they were to each other? They were so alike. It was obvious, now, that Draco had kicked his father to keep silent, "_Interesting_."

Draco watched him, intently, right back, "What I did or did _not_ have with Potter is in the past, isn't it?"

Harry turned his body and focused on a random painting on the wall, "Of course, the latter is my best bet."

Draco smiled, "I obviously never told you about the near-snog I had with him in sixth year?"

Cornwell sighed.

Harry pulled his eyes away from the painting. They narrowed, "Oh, this should be even more interesting. Entertain me with your lies; _curious minds are curious_."

Draco gave him credit by tilting his head, then crossed his arms over his chest, "Gay as the day-light, really. He had this little hand move he did with his wand, like this."

Harry watched, silently, as Draco pulled his wand out and imitated a very feminine wrist flick.

Cornwell was chuckling and interrupted before Harry could reply, "Gay or not, the man is dead. Let him be."

Draco twisted, "Why is it that Harry Potter is called a man, yet the rest of us are still boys?"

Cornwell sighed once more, "He was a man, Draco; he had the weight off our entire world on his shoulders."

"Yes, that, and being in the closet was probably hard, too."

Harry's lips were squished together very uncomfortably, tight, to keep from peeping a word.

Draco and Harry didn't look away from each other.

"Of course, you'll know all about that, Judas. Cornwell, did you know Judas is about to come out?"

Harry closed his eyes, "Would you STOP wishing that I was gay? I know you want to shag me and—"

"Oh, please, in your dreams, _Cliffdale_."

"Yeah, okay, maybe. We'll see what happens tonight," Harry quickly out-witted him.

Draco went to respond, but then fell silent, "You wish."

Harry dropped his arms from his chest, overwhelmingly proud of himself over something so trivial and pointless, "No, I think you're the one whose been wishing out of your league. I think we should head back before dawn. It'll be much more dangerous when people wake up in the morning and find out what happened."

Cornwell was just looking between them with half-moon squinted eyes, "Careful, Judas. Please be careful."

"OUT MY LEAGUE?" Draco was exasperated.

Harry walked right by him, coolly, "First Potter? Now me? You're nice-looking, but think realistically."

Draco watched Harry shake hands with Cornwell before starting for the door. He was a little evil.

Harry opened the front door and walked out, leaving Draco and Cornwell to share a private moment.

Five minutes later, they were back out on the street, again, silent.

When they were back at the Manor, Draco turned to Harry, "You're not out of my league, you know."

Harry handed Draco the broomstick, but Draco just placed it down on the floor, "I know I'm not."

Surprised, Draco looked him over, as he turned away, "Not even a little?"

Harry, finally giving into Draco, with a laugh, sat on the edge of his bed, and asked, almost very kindly, "Malfoy, are _you_ gay?"

Draco shrugged at the gentle prodding, "No, of course not," he replied confidently. They were both very soft-spoken, now, and tired. "I'm... slightly...?"

Harry squinted, "Okay, I'll bite. Slightly what, Malfoy?" Why did he care? Well, obviously, Malfoy wanted to talk about this. He kept bringing it up, so Harry would oblige him in a genuine way.

"I'm sort of Harry-centric, like most of Hogwarts was. I did have an unnatural obsession with you--_him_, I mean--for the first couple of years at Hogwarts."

Harry just stared at him, too tired to take the comment to heart or even start to analyze it, "You amaze me, Malfoy," he said, very frankly, bewildered. "You were practically in love with the guy." How was it possible to be getting along with Draco? This was MALFOY, his sworn nemesis. This was... Draco. They were never supposed to be having this light of a conversation. Merlin, he was not supposed to be having this talk about his sexual preference with... with...! Draco was not supposed to be this way. It seemed almost too-funny-and-unrealistic to be true—to have Draco Malfoy be Harry-centric—Harry gay? What in the bloody hell was that! Harry, remembering the events of the weeks passed, and the reason he was even there, looked down and away from Draco, because it suddenly hurt too much.

Draco laughed, carelessly, as he opened the bedroom door, "Hardly, I just admired him."

Harry fell onto his back, in the covers, distancing himself, "I'll accept that. Goodnight, Malfoy. Lock my door."

Draco's eyes looked him over, intently. An uneasy feeling crept into his stomach, "Very funny. Goodnight, and, by the way, you wish."

Harry half-smiled, rubbing his hands down his face, "I will wish, if you want me to."

Draco laughed, gruffly, "A little bit?"

"Not even "Draco-centric," Malfoy. Face it. You loved him, but he didn't return it. At all. Not even a smidgen."

"Did not _love_ him--never knew him--_admired_ him—in a completely platonic, straight way."

Harry sat up on his elbows and just smiled, awkwardly, "You're playing to my ego, Malfoy?"

Draco shrugged, "I'm trying to get into your pants, aren't I? I have to play something."

"Play _get your arse out of my room before I hex your balls off_, you... Harry-Potter obsessed freak."

Draco laughed all of the way back to his own bedroom.

When he fell into bed, he was still chuckling with sincere, pure laughter.

Harry Potter was staying down the hall from him, in the Malfoy Manor. It was almost unfathomable.

However hard he laughed that night, on his way into a land of calm serenity, he knew it was going to be the last genuine laughter he was going to feel for at least the next week. Things were not going to be easy. Their world was already in such a panic. So many things had happened to put extreme craters in their society, and even the muggle world. Muggles were being murdered, too, now. The death tolls were horrendous. Prisoners had escaped from all of the prisons. People hardly went out, and when they did, it wasn't uncommon to see a death of an innocent bystander trying to get somewhere to get his kid a Butterbeer. Now, with Lucius gone, and the masses of wizards who would go into panic mode over that, plus the supposed death of Harry Potter (who was supposed to be the last man standing so Voldemort wouldn't come out on top), and the murders of the Cliffdales, there were a lot of questions to be answered, and someone was going to have to come in and take the reigns to control what was left of the common consensus of scatter-brained, worried, anxious minds and souls.

The next day, both Draco and Harry would have to start playing parts both of them had been preparing their entire lives for.


	6. The Son of the Minister

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Six

The Son of the Minister

That very next morning, Harry's eyelashes fluttered open. It was seven, said the clock of enchanted beads of sand floating in the air by the elaborate candelabra beside his bed. Seven o'clock meant he'd only had about an hour of sleep. Puzzled as to why his body's alarm clock had woken him up so early, he turned his groggy eyes to the right for some sign or answer. The curtains were all thrown open and excessive, bright sunlight was pouring into them. His eyes closed, immediately, and he groaned, loudly, throwing his face away from the light that had, perhaps, just felt like it had given him a punch in both of his eyes, having not been prepared for the sudden action of the curtains, "I'm blind."

"Good morning, Mister Cliffdale."

Harry slowly sat up on his elbows, his eyes squinted. Uh... _what_? _Who in the hell_...? There was a man standing at the foot of his bed. He was a dark man, with brooding eyes and daunting features. His cheeks were sallow and angled, and he had the appearance that, once, as a younger man, he was quite the looker. But, age hadn't seemed to change him that much aside from a few wrinkles. He just appeared to lack the luster of... anything positive. He was holding a large book and folder in front of him, his eyes locked straight on Harry's. So, he sat up, slowly, with his hands helping the way behind him, "Good morning," he returned.

The man nodded his head, once, "Sir, I am Jackson Fritoan, the Minister's assistant."

Harry watched as he placed the book and folder down on the edge of the huge, four-poster bed, "Right, Mister Fritoan—"

"Please, sir, call me Jackson." A toothy, broad smile spread across his miserable face.

"Sure, Jackson," Harry replied, awkwardly looking down at his own body. He had never changed out of his robes the couple of hours before, having just fallen asleep right on the bed, tired after a very, very long day. The day before seemed hazy, now, but the night he had just experienced was as clear as anything. He looked around, suddenly, up above his bed and to the high, vaulted, carved wooden ceiling. He was Judas Cliffdale. He had to speak like Judas Cliffdale. He had to dress like Judas Cliffdale. He had to be Judas Cliffdale—not for his sake, for the sake of every wizard who needed him to... save them. His eyes shot right back up. "Jackson, if that's all, could you please excuse yourself? I have some things to tend to."

"Oh, right, right, sir, I was sent to tell you that Mister Malfoy requests your appearance at breakfast."

Harry watched him go. Great, breakfast. His stomach growled at the very thought of food as he tumbled off of his bed, ungracefully. If the Minister's Assistant had come in to, personally, tell him that he was invited to breakfast, this undoubtedly meant that something of a larger seriousness was going on. Instead of walking toward his wardrobe closet, where he had yet to put his things away into, he took his steps toward his open windows. His room was on the front of the house, to the very left, so if anything was, indeed, going on, he might have been able to see. He leaned over the edge of the balcony, but then immediately threw himself back into the room before anyone could spot him—thousands! Thousands of reporters and regular citizens! It was a swarm of wizards. He crept back up to the window but stayed in the shadows, in awe.

This breakfast, Harry knew, was being covered by the media.

Once he turned away, Harry walked over toward a large, standing, floor-length mirror. He still wasn't used to his new complexion, but he had already succeeding in owning it. He wore it well. Not that he would ever tell a soul, but playing the confident, cocky, arrogant heir to one of their world's most powerful men was extremely easy for him. Every arrogant emotion that he had ever kept secluded in his body was freely let loose. It felt good to get it out. It felt like he was dancing when he walked into a room and people turned to look at him—and all because of his name. But, it wasn't the name Harry Potter. It was a name that had been cherished for generations—it was Cliffdale, whose roots were ingrained in the inner societies where such arrogance could be portrayed and not looked down on, "This is going to make it or break it, Cliffdale," he said to himself, taking steps closer to the mirror. "You are Judas Cliffdale. You are—"

"Cliffdale," interrupted a booming voice, as the door to Harry's room swung open, causing Harry to jump back from the mirror, having been enjoying the silent calm that soothed his nerves. He was already turned around, his hands clutching his sides. His top lip rose, and he growled. Draco smiled, smug, as he sauntered into the room, leaving the door open. Behind him, he could see in Potter's mirror, walked in five women and one man. He turned to look at them, once he was stopped, and then back to the intense expression on the still-unfamiliar face of Harry Potter. "Ladies, gentleman, if you could please excuse us."

Harry walked toward them, his eyes narrowed, "You really should, coming in here uninvited," he harshly threw at all of them, who immediately paled. They were all in their early twenties, he supposed, and looked like they had just stepped out of Witchtrendy—which, in his opinion, was overdoing it. There was too much color in his room for seven thirty in the morning—bright colors were the new "season" trend. It almost gave him a throbbing headache, really. He turned away from all of them and started unbuttoning his robe, sensing the bitterness he had been trying to downplay for the last year of his life start to tears down the inner-makings of his chest. It was just trying to get out—and he fought so hard to keep it in, usually. "This had better be good, Malfoy."

Draco, impressed with the fierceness that had come out of _Judas_, turned to look at the women and man behind him. He nodded at them, once, and they immediately all turned around and hurried out the door. Following them, though slower, Draco, too, stopped at the door. He closed it with his left hand, his right hand placed behind his back, as he watched Harry pull off his robe. He locked the door, as silently as he could, and caught a pair of dangerously intense brown eyes in the mirror. Harry was expecting it, so he turned around, expectantly. In turn, Draco started toward him, again, at ease, "Why, Cliffdale, you look as if you've had a late-night romp—perhaps with a beautiful blonde... _woman_."

Harry couldn't help but smile. Malfoy was so cocky, no matter what kind of situation he was in, "Hardly," he responded, under his breath, and started over for his trunk. He had to throw an assemble together and quick. He had been supplied with two new, designer dress robes—the designer was so exclusive that he only worked on those who he had personally met with, first. Of course, the real Judas Cliffdale had done that meeting prior to the events of the last couple of days. Anyway. "Does anyone knock in this house? I could have been whacking off, you know—how embarrassed would you have been, then? No, wait, you're Malfoy... you would have been entertained, I don't doubt."

Draco smiled, watching him shuffle through his wooden trunk, furiously, "You're grumpy without sleep, huh?"

"Nice of you to notice. Tell me something I don't know?" Harry stood up and turned toward him with questioning eyes, carrying a shirt in his hands. He turned his head away from the intensely good-looking features of the young man standing across from him. He bolted for the window, once more. "What's going on with this breakfast? What... is that _Albus_?" Leaned over the ledge, now, of his window, once more, his eyes started to soften and lighten. It figured that Albus Dumbledore would show up when requested to by the son of the missing Minister of Magic—but to the Malfoy home? Harry never thought he would see the day. He turned to look over his shoulder, but, at that moment, Draco leaned over the ledge, too, resulting in Harry being blinded by the sunlight hitting off of his very bright hair. "AH!" He quickly closed his eyes to cope with the new damage.

Draco pulled away from the ledge and took Harry's elbow in his hands, pulling him away, too, hurriedly, because reporters had looked up at them, "Listen—and, and listen carefully. I announced a press conference, when we got back last night, and set it for nine. If I wasn't going to do it, the Ministry was going to do it. My father has disappeared into thin air, and the Ministry isn't going to stop until they find out why. So, I extended my hand, first, and my mother's, before the Ministry could come in an accuse... us, or you. In fact, even I do not know where the hell you put him, but... where did you put him, by the way?"

Harry ignored him, hurriedly running around his bed and back to his trunk, searching through it to find the black dress robe that he had been given, "Malfoy, listen to me," he hissed, grabbing at a pair of gray trousers, instead, that were nicely folded and spell-protected against wrinkles. He turned around, sharply, panicked, his hair a mess and his face flushed. "Please, whatever you do, do _not_ tell Dumbledore that you know who I am. Don't hint at it, don't smirk at it—and, God-willing, do not banter with me—he'll know what's going on if you do! So, act like we're friends—old, child-hood friends and nothing more, nothing less. The last thing we need is for Dumbledore to have you—"

"Wouldn't it be better to tell him, Potter?" Draco whispered back, standing only about a foot away.

"No," Harry assured, as they stood face to face. "I'm doing this my way."

Draco blinked, once, as Harry walked around him, "It's never a good idea to go against Dumbledore, Potter—something I'm sure you know better than anyone."

"I'm not going against him," Harry laughed, under his breath, as he unzipped his jeans. When Draco turned around, he didn't look away, just continued to wait for an explanation. Unbelievable! "_Do you mind'_?" Still, Draco didn't move, but his eyes became even more serious. "Obviously not!" He pushed his jeans down, annoyed. Anything he had to show was nothing Malfoy had never seen of the human body. "All of these years, you've been assuming that I'm Dumbledore's little puppet. I know you have—it's what all of you thought—all of you. But, what you don't know is the truth. I've never been his puppet. He intended for me to do certain things his way, and it never turned out that way. I do it on my own. I jump into the fire. I take the risks—and I get it done. This time, I'm either going to get it done and live, or die while trying; the second of which seems more prominent as this morning goes on and I ask myself why the hell I'm even here—"

"To get in with Voldemort," Draco reminded him, almost comically, amused at the self-doubting Harry Potter.

"How am I going to get in with him if he knows you don't—"

"But, he doesn't know, Potter," Draco laughed, interrupting the skittish, already half-dressed unfamiliar man. "Even if he did, do you think he'd care? It doesn't matter why his supporters are his supporters, don't you know?" Harry turned to look at him, doubtfully, as he buttoned his trousers. How could Harry not know these things? Or did he, but he refused to believe them to keep himself ignorant to the truths of the Dark Lords' world? There was a decent likeliness that this was true. "Half of the men with him are only with him out of loyalty to their families, not to him. Do you not think he threatens most of his men with fear? He'd kill their wives and children—or husbands and children. He's done it, before. He doesn't let you leave, even if you're not loyal. Those who don't feel him in their hearts, Potter, or believe in his cause... they _won't leave him_. Fear, Potter."

"I knew that," Harry responded, pulling his shirt off over his head, quickly. "You're different than them."

"I'm not," Draco replied. "I'll pledge to him. I'll have to do it, tonight. It's my destiny. I can't run from it."

Wait, _what_? Slowly, Harry's body turned around from his wooden trunk that was branded all over with the initials "J.C." and "Judas Cliffdale", still slightly bent over. He withdrew his position until he was standing straight, still without a shirt. It was his destiny? Pledging to Voldemort? That wasn't a destiny. That was a death-wish. It was stupid. It was idiotic. It was... not something that Draco Malfoy ever had been. Draco had never been unintelligent. He was smart. He had pride. He had a lot of qualities that most people envied—and, yet, here he was talking about fear and saying he was just going to give into it, too. That easily? It seemed that he had been fighting so hard to stay away from Voldemort, and now he was talking as if hope was lost, "Malfoy, you're _not_ pledging tonight."

Draco laughed, but it came out as weakly as he felt, "I have to, Potter. I have loyalties to my family's honor."

"Your mother," Harry's voice went up, "would rather DIE than see you pledge. No one wants you to pledge." And, honor? What kind of honor was it to be a known murderer? Fine, so his family were purist elite, and they despised anything to do with muggles. To them, anyone with a speck of non-magical relatives or ties was worth nothing. They were scum to, and nearly spit on by, Malfoy's society circle. Harry wasn't going to stand there and let Draco try to tell him that he was just going to pledge—it was ridiculous. "_Honor_?"

"You don't understand." It sounded bad, sure. "They all expect me to, even my mother. It's... inevitable."

Harry pulled a dark-brown button-up shirt's sleeve over his right arm, and then over his left. As he walked toward Draco, his eyes squinted in bewilderment, his hands pulled the sides of the shirt tighter around his sides so they met in the center of his chest, "If you pledge to Voldemort, Draco," Harry started, quietly, not pulling his eyes from Draco's. He stopped when he was about a foot away from the like-sized seventeen year old he had grown up loathing. They stared right at each other. Draco was waiting for what he had to say. Underneath the iciness and usual fire of his nearly-silver eyes, something else was brewing there. It was something that Harry didn't think he would ever come close enough to identifying. But, Harry couldn't think of anyway to threaten Malfoy, and he certainly didn't have time to figure it out. There was one ultimatum that, ultimately, everyone in Harry Potter's life was going to have to decide. "It's me or him."

Draco blinked, "_What_?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. "It's me or him. If you pledge to him, I'll kill you."

Draco snorted with laughter, "Potter, what are you... you're serious."

"Like you have to pledge to Voldemort for your family's pride, I have to pledge to myself for the same reason," Harry said to him as he finished buttoning his shirt. He tucked the bottom of the shirt below the low-rising trousers that were fitting snugly against his body. Who wore pants so tight? Of course. Malfoy. And Cliffdale—both of them had an unique dress-style. He kept his eyes on Draco's, as he finally stopped fiddling with his outfit. He swept down and grasped his dress robe from the end of his bed and pulled it into his large, open palms. "Death Eaters, for whatever reason they come to be that way, are my enemy. They are a strong army that stands behind a seemingly immortal man. Individually, they might be weak and have the wrong loyalties—but, together, they've killed everyone I have ever cared about, Malfoy. You'd pledge to him because you're afraid of what he'd do to your family. I'll pledge to myself because I have no more family to lose—but all of my friends do, and our whole entire world has everything to lose. You know the prophecy, Malfoy—I'll kill him, or he'll kill me. And, in the meantime, I'll kill any death eater I knowingly ever set my eyes onto, including you."

Draco turned around and left, neither having blinked at each other, closing the door quietly behind him.

At five minutes to nine o'clock, Harry ran down the front entry stairs, not fully paying attention. He knew he was late, and he didn't want to miss making the entrance he was probably going to make with Malfoy. At the bottom of the stairs, he abruptly stopped and grasped onto the bottom railing spiral, as if to pace himself. Standing in front of him was the entire Minister's cabinet, all shaking hands with each other and discussing, quietly, things amongst themselves. How Harry had managed to miss the commotion of these people, and the overwhelming amount of camera flashes by the press, he wasn't sure. But, now, the hall had quieted to see who he was. Flustered, he forced a tight, gritted smile. What a horrible entrance, "Good morning, ladies, gentleman."

Draco, standing amongst the Ministry's finest, looked Harry over, "Good-morning, Judas."

Harry bowed his head, walking away from the steps, calmly, "I've had better, Draco. I assume you'd agree."

Draco stepped out in front of the line of Department heads, as Harry walked toward them. He outstretched his own right hand, as a formality because the press was watching. No one had ever, obviously, known that there had been a strong friendship of childhood when Draco and Judas were young. There had been old rumors that they were friends, but they were talked down because the "obvious" fact that the Malfoys and the Cliffdales were too strongly opposed to each other to have their boys play together. His entire palm was met, strongly, still walking into it, as was Harry.

They both stopped, their bodies about five inches from touching, their hands buried between their chests.

Camera flashes had attacked the already bright entrance hallway of the Malfoy estate.

Harry's handshake was firm. Impressed, Draco allowed the handshake to linger, "I would."

What a smarmy, brilliant little manipulator of the press. It was easier than ever for Harry to comprehend the charm of Draco Malfoy—something he had never knowingly admitted to anyone, not even himself. He was a gorgeous creature—quick-witted, sarcastic, and... aristocratically delicious to any pair of eyes, even those that had been glaring and cursing him throughout the years. He had a way about him, even if it was just the way he shook a hand. Harry, just as impressed, clasped Malfoy's hand tighter to his own, still shaking. He leaned in the couple of inches, but spoke loudly, "What's that? You smell _lovely_, Draco."

Draco's laughter came up in his throat like a roaring lion—and Harry heard it, but no one else did.

They both had their own agendas and plans to play out, here, and it started with that very morning. Face to face, now, though, Draco was smiling to himself, and Harry was doing the same, their eyes both narrowed at each other in a friendly, suspicious, amused way. They were looking forward to whatever it was that the other was going to be doing. If there was one thing that would keep light-hearted between them, it was the entertainment that would be found trying to decipher the other's angle—Draco through political handshakes in front of their entire press media and Harry through a small lean in to be a bit closer to Draco Malfoy—two powerful young men on the political rise with a rumored past. A past, indeed, but no one knew that the history between them was far more deep and complicated than could be suspected.

Draco cleared his throat, finally releasing his grip on Harry's hand. Harry's hand did the same thing at the same time, though they were still looking at each other. Draco motioned his left hand out beside him, as it to make way for Judas Cliffdale to walk, to guide him into the dining room where he knew to be about two hundred international reports waiting for the press-conference/breakfast of their ministry, Draco Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy and Judas Cliffdale, "After you, Judas."

Harry began to walk around him, coolly, not even giving a blink of attention to the media, purposely.

Draco turned around with him. Smugly, his hand placed on Harry's upper back to _guide him_.

When Harry caught Draco's eyes, for a split second, they were sharing an identical evil grin, but it wasn't on their mouths. It was in the fleeting glance between them. They were going to manipulate the medial, and no one was going to know. They had public profiles to mold—and the more together they were on it, the closer they were, the way they walked, the way they looked at each other, the way they talked to each other... it was all going to be analyzed, now. Judas Cliffdale moving in with Draco Malfoy was just as controversial as any of the actual current events of death and disappearance.

As they walked into the dining room, it immediately exploded in a thunder of media persons.

They stopped.

Harry looked to his right, at Draco, holding his hands behind his back.

Draco looked back at him. But, he then smiled as Harry stepped away from the entrance doors.

"Ladies, gentlemen," Draco insisted, suddenly, raising his voice over the commotion. His hands rose in the air, in front of him, and the attention of the media immediately fell upon him, though the camera flashes hadn't stopped. He lowered his hands when the silence had taken over the room, and the Ministry members entered the dining room to the right of him, joining a standing Albus Dumbledore around the elegant, fancy table. "I have asked you here and expect your full cooperation. I know this is an opportunity for you, as members of the press, but I must ask you to respect the reasons why I've called this meeting of heads of our Ministry, Albus, and myself and my mother. This is a very difficult time... not only for my mother and I, but for Judas Cliffdale, as well. I ask you to respect his privacy as much as you will ours."

Draco's hands placed together in front of his chest. The room was silent.

Draco bowed his head, grateful, "With that, ladies, gentleman, please sit down. Get comfortable."

The chairs around the gigantic table were all pulled backward by an enchantment. Harry tried so hard not to look at Dumbledore. He had never had to try and ignore the man. It was physically impossible to do, and Harry had never realized it. It was almost as if there was a magnetic drawl that came from Albus. But, as the Ministry members began to greet each other, Dumbledore was being greeted very warmly by everyone around the table. Harry didn't sit down in his chair yet, not knowing where, exactly, to sit. The only chair left, by the end of the table, was the one at the head of the table—opposite only to Draco's chair at the other end of the table. Oh, no. He looked over his shoulder to see what was going on.

Malfoy was watching him, half smiling.

Harry looked away from him, not annoyed. There was a respect between them in a way respect had never existed, before. Draco had taken up Harry's entire plan without a complaint or threat. He had his own motives, but Harry didn't know, exactly, what those motives were, yet. Calling this meeting, of the most powerful men and women in their world, as a seventeen year old, was a brave move. Yet, Draco seemed older than seventeen by theory. The way he carried himself and spoke to his elders, his age was not an issue. He was respected by the most powerful wizards, clearly, as Harry stood behind his chair, taking in the men and women sitting down and looking at Draco with equality in their eyes. But, Harry and Albus were the only ones who remained standing.

Draco looked between them, as he reached his own seat, "Please, gentlemen, is there anything I can do?"

Harry forced a very Judas-Cliffdale like laugh, "Proper manners, Draco Malfoy. You never seat yourself until your host has seated himself, or don't you remember anything from charm-school?" He flashed a bright, extremely phone smile. But, no one was familiar enough with the always-hidden Judas Cliffdale to know how to distinguish different facial expressions and smiles. Harry looked at Albus, for the very first time, allowing himself to. "I am, however, not surprised that you're still standing."

Dumbledore's smile was charming and light, his eyes twinkling at Harry, "Nor I, young Cliffdale."

"Sir," Harry greeted back, with a nod of respect, then tearing his eyes to look back at Draco. "Please, sit."

Draco's left eyebrow hooked up, but he didn't say anything just yet, because some of the other ministry members had quickly stood up, including one man who had wobbled and scooted his chair back so loudly that even the press was chuckling. Brilliant, Potter! Draco bowed his head about a forth of an inch, only to Harry, hoping no one else noticed. He was trying to give Harry his props—this was going to be a breeze if they kept playing off of each other so innocently. What exactly was going to be a breeze? Fooling their entire world with lies and deception. He cleared his throat, loudly, "A little hasty, though polite, Judas Cliffdale, using manners as a way to make yourself look better than the ministry members." Oh, challenge!

Harry smiled, genuinely, enthralled with this, "Oh, I think we'd both agree that's not too hard, anyway." HA!

Heads around the table snapped down to Harry in a domino-effect, eyes furious and set on fire. Everyone was now standing, once more, clearly waiting for Draco to take his seat as to not appear rude when Harry and Albus had so eloquently made their respect for Draco, as their _host_, evident. But, when the eyes finally all flickered to Harry, Judas Cliffdale had taken a seat, first, not looking at all distressed over his own words. He pulled out a fabric napkin from above his plate, threw it out into the air until it was unfolded, and then placed it on his lap, looking directly at Draco, who emulated taking a seat.

Oh, _fucking_ brilliant, Harry Potter. Nicely played, "Judas, respect _is_ in order for Ministry officials."

"Oh," Harry said, loudly, completely unshaken. "They have my respect, but I do have an opinion."

Draco's eyes lit on fire, trying his hardest not to laugh, "Judas, I know you're on edge..." But! Unspoken!

"Yes, let us not dwell on my bitterness with the Ministry. Where's Lucius? Oh, that's right, they've _lost _him."

Draco pressed his lips together, taking in the reaction around the table.

None of the ministry members responded, too appalled and offended, clearly speechless.

"That is why we're here, young mister Cliffdale," spoke the only other seated-figure—Albus.

Harry looked at Dumbledore, said nothing. He looked back at Draco, wildly, "Is it? I'm just here for breakfast."

The room exploded with laughter. The media was in chortles, chuckling delightedly. The tension immediately died and the lighter-hearted ministry members all began to pull their chairs back, manually. But, Draco continued to stare at Harry while the room around him was still chortling with honest amusement. Harry was looking right back at him, unfalteringly confident in the reaction he had gotten. But, his stomach felt as thought it had been sucker-punched, so he tore his eyes away and looked down at his plate. The morning before, he had been looking at the very same plate when he'd found out that Harry had been murdered. His eyes slowly rose, and he looked over his shoulder, at the door, almost as if, somehow, summoning his father to walk through the door. And, the door, that had just been closed, swung open.

Everyone at the table turned his or her attention toward the doors.

In walked Cornwell Black.

Harry was in awe. Now, the times that he had seen Cornwell, he was dressed like a muggle with a beard to rival any of a mountain man. In the face, Black had been smoldering and passionately intense—perhaps an added benefit of the beard. The man who was standing, now, perfectly still, had no beard. It had been shaved away, smoothly, and there didn't appear to be any shadow on his chiseled lower jaw. His muggle clothes—flannel shirt, jeans and old, beat boots—were replaced by an exquisite, flowing dress robe in such a bright, intense red that Harry's gut felt a little anxious. The presence was clearly unexpected, due to the silence of the ministry members. But, that was nothing compared to the surprise on Draco's face—his mouth open, his eyes docked onto Cornwell as if frozen in a moment. It had seemed, at first, that Draco hadn't immediately recognized Cornwell, but Harry was sure that was no longer a problem.

Harry cleared his throat, pulled his napkin from his lap and placed it over his empty plate, again. He pushed his chair back and stood right up. Cornwell, who had since been looking at the blank, overwhelmed Draco, turned his head away, completely, and walked straight toward the table whilst the camera flashes and whispers of reporters started to shake the hall. The beard, Harry wondered, as Cornwell's eyes landed on him, first, because he was the only one to stand, had, possibly, been on the man's face since before Draco was born. Without the beard, it was clear that the similarities between his and Draco's faces were more than just that way but related coincidences. Truest to the fault of the look in Cornwell's eyes, Harry could claim the first solid-emotion he ever had from a Malfoy—well, of Malfoy's stature in society, "Cornwell, good morning."

Cornwell nodded his head at Harry, "Judas, polite, as always, it's a pleasure. Good-morning to you, as well."

Harry watched as the expressions around the table began to falter. It was clear _why_ when their eyes took in Cornwell's stunning face, and, slowly, curious eyes started to drag toward Draco in an unobtrusive, gape-mouthed way. No one said anything for a long moment, because things were being put together too quickly. Looking at Cornwell was like looking at a dark-headed, more intense version of Draco, down to the very same chin and jaw—trademarks for both of them. And, Draco Malfoy was stuck to his seat, his hands clutched over the sides of his chair—which had just been pushed back.

Harry watched, anxiously, as Draco rose to his feet.

Cornwell looked back at Draco, "Draco, I need a word."

Draco cleared his throat, "A word with the ministry, Cornwell?" His own voice was shaky. Shit.

"No, actually," Cornwell replied, toying with something in his hands. "In regards to Harry Potter's will."

Harry felt his stomach drop. Oh, SHIT. He palmed his hand over his mouth, chewing on the corner of it.

Draco blinked, but he couldn't help but laugh as Harry quickly took a seat, again, seeing this out of the corner of his eye. But, Draco didn't look at Harry. No, this was far too interesting of a situation to randomly look at Judas Cliffdale. However, he was in the middle of a very important press conference and knew it would be exceedingly rude to excuse himself when he had been the one to invite the willing members of the Ministry into his home. They were there to discuss the disappearance of his father, and Draco had to appear to have that as his first priority, though it was not. He knew perfectly well who his father was taken into custody by, and that was enough for him for the time being, "Anything that has to do with Harry Potter's will, I doubt, has to do with me—"

"Well, that is where you'd be wrong," Cornwell cut him off and held out the envelope. "See for yourself."

Draco cleared his throat as Cornwell walked to him, the envelope presented out in front of him. He took it, looking around the table. None of the Ministry members, to his utmost relief, appeared annoyed that this was happening. No one seemed too impatient. He slid his finger against the inside fold of the letter on the back of the envelope. It was not branded to a close. His eyes flickered upward, knowingly, to Harry. He was drowning himself in pumpkin juice, slugging it down. What in the... this was interesting, "I hope this isn't a howler sent by him from beyond the grave. You know, it'd be just like him, to have the last word."

The ministry members exploded with laughter. Even Dumbledore laughed.

The only person who did not laugh was the stiff, brooding Judas Cliffdale at the end of the table.

Draco unfolded the letter, not paying it its full respect. His eyes scanned, but then, they stopped, fully focused. Why would Cornwell be the one to deliver such a letter to Draco? Who had given it to Cornwell? Harry had a will? Draco didn't even have a will. What, what was it that was in his will? Nothing good, of course. If anything, maybe a Quidditch snitch, or something of the sort—to remind him of the many times that Draco lost. But, no, no, there was no such thing on the paper. _...the succession of the items contained by Mister Harry James Potter have been claimed, by Potter, himself, to the ownership of Draco D. Malfoy upon his death—sudden and prompt—and wishes for the terms of this document to remain between Draco D. Malfoy and Harry J. Potter and no one else in-between..._ His eyes examined the top of the letter. _Last revised, October thirty-first_ of that year? This had to be a joke. However, he couldn't react, because he was too overcome by the amount of intensity and bewilderment. He knew it was too dangerous to look right at Harry, so he, instead, turned his full attention to Dumbledore, and then Cornwell, and then back to Dumbledore. Both of their faces, he imagined Harry's, as if trying to talk through them to Harry. "What, why would he... why would he... I mean, it's _me_."

Dumbledore was staring at Harry, his eyes dark.

Harry was still chugging away on a newly full goblet of refilling pumpkin juice.

"Albus," Draco hissed, first. Blue eyes met his own. They were very intense, and it surprised Draco. Asking Dumbledore what he knew about the will was nothing unusual for anyone in the room. Albus was the closest thing to a mentor that Harry Potter had ever had, and it was a known fact by everyone—hearing it by word of mouth, personal experience, media-talk, or from reading the papers. No matter how inappropriate it was to discuss it right then, Draco was too emotionally distraught to avoid it. "What do you know about this?"

"Nothing." And, it was the most honest thing that Draco had ever heard out of Albus Dumbledore's mouth.

_Nothing_?

Draco then looked at Cornwell, "How did you get this? Surely, the Ministry has it's own copy?"

"I found it tucked under a plant by my front door this morning. It was post-marked through me to you."

That morning, hmm? Draco's eyes fell down onto the letter, which he was still holding in his open, content palms. This was very interesting, indeed. Harry had tucked it by Cornwell's plant the night before, hadn't he? He wouldn't have been that hard to do so, as he had been by himself for at least five minutes before Draco had joined him outside. But, why would Harry give it to Cornwell? That was suspicious, and not only could Cornwell become suspicious of Judas and question why he would have received it for Draco because Harry Potter didn't know who Cornwell Black was, but why hadn't Harry just given it to Draco, personally? He finally set his eyes on Harry, silently, staring at him chugging, yet still, from his goblet, while the men sitting on either side of him on the sides of the table began to chuckle at him, encouraging him to stop, "Judas, what do you know about Harry Potter's will?"

Harry blinked into his goblet. When he lowered it, the whole room was watching him, "_Me_? Oh, nothing."

Draco sure hoped Harry knew what was coming to him, "How did you get your mother's wills?"

Harry blinked, placing his cup down very quietly, though it still reigned supreme over any other noise in the room. At the mention of his _mother_, Maureen, it seemed like everyone had held their breath. But, Harry had never received his own mother's wills, and he had never, yet, realized it—not even when he was writing out his own will. He had started doing so in the September of the last year, the sixth year. Death loomed on his horizon every minute of every day. Originally, everything had been passed on to Ron, and a couple of things to Hermione, but with one duel that he and Draco had shared, alone, which left them both beat and oddly respectful toward each other, he had changed his mind. Draco had everything in the world. Ron did not. Rightfully, Harry had wanted to give all of his possessions to the only person who would have found them sentimental—and, that had been Ron. But, Harry knew Ron would find Draco Malfoy when he found out that Draco was entitled to his things—a part of Harry's plan. Of course, there were other reasons, genuine, sensitive ones, that Harry had signed over his lute to Malfoy. There had been a connection between them, by the end of the year. His tools he had acquired over the years, he knew, would be beneficial to Draco—who had many attempts to kill him and never did, but rather returned every other day, sometimes, to duel with Harry in the middle of the night—with no words spoken other than hexes and curses. They always both left beaten, battered, and knocked down a few pegs by the other.

A balance of power had slowly settled between them in result of those duels.

"Through my father. Wills always fall into the hands of a father."

Draco paled.

Harry looked up from his pumpkin juice, his lips parted open. Oh, no. That should not have come out. He quickly looked at Cornwell, "But, because your father is gone, of course, as of last night, it's no surprise Cornwell received them this morning. He was like a father to you growing up, if I do remember correctly. Lucius probably put Cornwell's name down in receiving the wills on the event of his disappearance or death when you were six." When he was done speaking, he was sure he had everyone convinced. He had spoken nonchalantly, calmly, as if every single syllable coming out of his mouth was true to the most accurate faith of his knowledge. A few people were looking at him as if he had no finished, so he leaned forward a bit, as if to clue them in. Obviously, these few people had not had children or were not thinking clearly. "When you reach the age of six, your parents fill out all of the appropriate forms in case of death or disappearance. They put down names of close friends or family, such as Cornwell. I worked under the Department of Obituaries when I was fifteen, going on sixteen—"

"Intelligent as you are, that's impossible. Only at the age of seventeen can a wizard work for the ministry—"

"I didn't work for our ministry," Harry interrupted the smug woman. "I worked in America with working papers."

Before they could continue to glower at each other, Draco sat back down, again, loudly, still overwhelmed.

"What is it, Draco? What has he left you?" Cornwell asked, still standing, his hands folded in front of him.

Draco looked right up at Harry, silently, yet did not answer Cornwell. What if this was fake? But, Harry had drowned himself in so much pumpkin juice that he doubted it was. Cornwell sounded genuinely interested, even slightly worried. The issue of his relationship with Cornwell was too much to analyze, too. He would end up a basket case of emotional confusion if he continued to pile on any more issues into his already up-side-down, "Having grown up specializing in the Dark Arts, Judas, do you think this could be fake?"

Harry's eyelashes flickered up from his now-filling plate. He was so hungry that his stomach was growling out at him without apologetically. He hoped no one else could hear. His mouth was beginning to water at the appearance of mountains of food starting to rise up on plates around the table, "It depends. What has he given you?"

Draco dropped the now re-folded parchment onto his plate and sat back, completely, "_Everything_?" Why?

"_Everything?_!" The gasps of awe went around the table. "Good lord! That's a house! And, another fortune!"

Cornwell cleared his throat, which silenced the gossiping ministry members, "A house? Dumbledore?"

Albus looked the most comfortable in the room, smiling, relaxing back in his chair, "Oh, yes."

Draco started at Harry, completely dumbfounded, "How did Harry Potter acquire a house? Albus?"

Harry was glad Draco had made himself pull his eyes away.

"The Black family home, Draco."

Draco pushed his chair back and rose, upset, "_What_?"

Harry felt his face begin to flush of warmth, of color, and he, too, looked at Albus, "_The Black estate_?"

Draco glared at Harry, immediately, for playing along, for playing innocent.

Harry continued to pale when the fury in the unfamiliar eyes was billowing.

Cornwell stepped a bit closer to the table and cleared his throat, awkwardly, "But, how? Why? I don't..."

"Sirius, Cornwell," Dumbledore responded at ease. "Surely, you remember James and Sirius's friendship?" Cornwell didn't say a thing, nor did he hardly even move. He and Draco were looking at each other, as if confused, across the table. Draco was holding up his letter, again, and Harry watched, feeling an angst starting to boil inside of him, as the silver eyes of the Slytherin skimmed back and forth, at a rapid rate, down the contents of the letter. Surely enough, where Harry knew most of the larger possessions to be listed, Draco's eyes stopped. He looked back up, this time to Harry. He was very, very suspicious, but why?

Harry looked away from him and back to Dumbledore, keeping calm, "Black left his possessions to Potter?"'

Dumbledore smiled at him, "Precisely, young Cliffdale." He held up his goblet at Judas, bowed his head, and then sipped. "I do not find any surprise in that of Harry having written out his will. Considering, Draco, the extremity of your relationship with Harry Potter in his last few months, I wouldn't think you'd be too surprised to know he'd written out his will. He hated the idea of dying, you know—yes, please, more pumpkin juice, thank-you, dear," he regarded the self-serving pitcher as it poured into Dumbledore's goblet. It then curtseyed at him, cutely, while Dumbledore watched, in silence, as if completely enthralled, in respect to the pitcher. He picked up his goblet, once more, took a sip, and then smiled back at Draco, genuinely. "He was opposed to the idea of dying—not because he was afraid, but because he wasn't yet accomplished enough for his own self—and practically thought he was immortal, often finding ways to sidestep plans and orders that were in place to protect him and then successfully coming out on top—his protection having often gone eschewed over his own instincts. He had been lucky, thusfar. Do you understand what I might possibly mean, Draco?"

Harry looked away, trying not to laugh. Dumbledore knew, "I was under the impression that you and Potter did not get along," he said, reverting back to the role of pretending to be stunned, just as everyone else was at the revelation of Dumbledore saying there had been an extremity in Draco's relationship with Harry Potter which suggested that Harry and Draco had some sort of a deep, intense relationship, whereas the papers had all stated the exact opposite—that they were always feuding and trying to kill each other. It had evolved into much more than that. Nothing between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had ever been that simple. "All right, Draco?"

"Fine," Draco returned, icily, not looking at anyone but Cornwell. "Please, join us for breakfast."

By the time noon rolled around, Harry had excused himself from the breakfast. It hadn't been planned, solely, for breakfast, so he came to find out. He knew, as he walked out the back doors of the Malfoy estate, which he had not seen, really, in full detail when it was bright out, that in the dining hall, the masses of media were being excused from the estate and the serious topics were going to be discussed. Draco had some sort of plan. He had something extreme to gain, a great many of things. Harry didn't know which to pick to peg to Draco.

Regardless of how he appeared on the outside, a decade's work of the most powerful identity switching charm, he was still Harry Potter on the inside. Every step he took in the Malfoy's manor was never met by full confidence. Sometimes, he would forget that he looked different on the outside, and panicked for a brief second before he realized he was safe to prying eyes. A sense of danger, just for being there, hadn't left his body, and he was sure it wouldn't. He had an entire world to protect, and he had to do it under the magnifying glass. He wasn't exceedingly confident in the effort, and, as he sadly stared out at the lush, lavish lawns before him, he admitted this to himself.

Draco peaked around the corner of the open glass doors. Harry was standing a good ten feet in front of them with his hands on his sides, his feet planted to the ground. Slowly, he approached, having excused himself to the toilet. Harry had excused himself out of the conference about an hour after breakfast had finished and hadn't since be seen by anyone, not even the house-elves who had been keeping track of Harry on Draco's request, "All right?"

Harry turned around, quickly, his hand halfway to his pocketed wand.

Draco tilted his head, awkwardly, but Harry said nothing. He dropped his hand, again, and looked away, "You're jumpy."

"You'd be, too," Harry responded, quietly, still not looking at him. "What is it, Malfoy?"

Draco blinked his eyes, trying to identify the strained tone. He couldn't, "I was on my way to the bathroom."

Harry's eyes blandly moved toward the direction of the unwanted intruder, again, and his eyes narrowed. Draco was trying to see through him, his eyes peering at the pocket where Harry's wand was sticking out, now, "Don't let me stop you, Malfoy. I was just enjoying your..." Yard? Gardens? Land? No, "national park," he lightly smirked, motioning toward the back gardens and rolling hills and trees that surrounded the estate into it's secluded, private acreage. "If you don't mind, I'd... just like to be alone."

"Oh," commented Draco, very quietly. He stepped backward. "Do you need anything?"

"From you?"

"I'm trying to be decent to you, the least you could do is show me the same decency. God-damn."

Harry turned around, fully, once more, watching the retreating platinum-headed equally-aged wizard. He dropped his hands from his sides, too, and stepped forward as if it would stop Draco from heading back toward the house in such a mood, clearly annoyed with Harry's attitude, "Wait a minute," he offered, stubbornly.

Draco turned around, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched to the left, "What?"

"The air," Harry said, approaching him. "Do you feel that?"

Draco looked away from Harry and, instead, concentrated on the air around them. He smirked, hard, "No."

Harry stopped in front of him. He wasn't kidding. Draco seemed to sense this, dropped his smirk, and started to look more closely out into the back lawn. But, he and Harry didn't lock their eyes together, again, whilst Draco was clearly trying to search, hard, this time, for something he should have been seeing or feeling from the air or the magnificent outdoor gardens. Shivering, Harry slid his hands up his own arms. It was June and he was shivering. Draco's skin, pale and vibrantly glowing, seemed to begin to flush, which was a little frightening as Draco was already quite white, naturally, "Something's looming, Draco," Harry said, darkly, under his breath, standing about five inches away. He walked beside Draco but turned into him so Draco's arm was in the center of his chest. He turned his eyes to look out, too, over the beautiful, sparkling, magical land. It seemed impossible than anything negative could penetrate the scene, but it was there. It was there and Harry was dreading it. He was feeling it trying to intrude his veins and rip at his soul. Sighing, once more, Harry turned back into the open doors. "Looming like a lion, waiting to pounce. Whatever it is, it's going to destroy."

Draco followed him in, but he did take one more glance over his shoulder, "I wish we knew what it was."

"We do," Harry responded, as they walked down the hallway, close, their voices minute. "Sort of."

Draco kept his eyes on the floor, "I feel cold. Do you feel cold?"_ Mmmhmm_ was the shaky answer. He suddenly stopped and reached his right hand out. He grasped the back of Harry's robe as his left hand rose to his own mouth. He put his fingertips to his own lips. Harry, who had been about to say something, closed his light pink, full lips. Slowly, Draco's eyes whizzed around the hallway, his eyes searching a full 360 while he turned his head. It's not that he was expecting to see anyone, but he never knew who was listening. He pulled Harry closer to him, at ease, still holding his fingers over his mouth until the tips of their noses were almost touching, and Judas Cliffdale's eyes were hurriedly searching his for answers. "Cold, in June! We must need a hug, old friend!" Draco said, loudly, and pulled Harry Potter right against his body, tightly, both of his hands grasped into the back of the elaborately designed black velvet dress robe. But, he immediately put his lips beside Harry's ear, his hand clutching the back of Harry's head, just in case anyone happened to be watching. It would seem like a friendly, intense hug. "No matter what happens, we should meet somewhere tonight. Somewhere neutral. If someone is listening, your room is suspect, as is mine. As is this house."

Harry said nothing, his eyes looking down at Draco's shoulder. They finished the embrace with forced smiles.

Draco cleared his throat, stepping backward with ease, "Well, I'm about to head back into the meeting."

Harry began to follow him. He yawned, covering his mouth, "I think I'll come back with you."

The safest place for Harry Potter, for the first time ever, was in the company of a Malfoy. _Draco_ Malfoy.

"Oh, and Draco?"

Draco turned around, about ten feet in front of Harry, in a hurry to get into the bathroom, "What?"

Harry's hands slid into his pockets, nervously, and he smiled—a genuine smile, "Happy birthday."

Draco smiled. He said nothing, just turned away and then turned the corner to the bathroom.

It was some three hours later when Harry ran down the front steps of the entrance hall of the Malfoy manor, rapidly running away from a tiny, foot-sized dragon that was flapping its wings and spewing fire. He was, however, just in time to meet the entire group of Ministry officials who were all bidding their last farewells to Draco. But, Harry, loosing ground on the tiny dragon, who was scarily quick and jumped three feet in the air at times, didn't care if he was going to be intruding in a rude way. Because of the commotion, by the time he reached the middle of the steps, most of the ministry members had looked over, "MALFOY! MALFOY, GET THIS THING—HEX IT! Ah! IT GOT ME! IT GOT ME! I'm hit! I'm hit! I'm going down—fuck!"

And, Harry, with the bottom of his robe on fire, fell dramatically onto the floor after he had tripped off of the bottom step. He nearly jumped onto his palms, skidding backward across the floor as the tiny dragon flew off of the bottom step and landed about three feet from Harry. It tilted its tiny, dark red head, and its dark orange eyes appeared suddenly innocent. When it moved an inch closer, Harry pushed his body backward, lurching, on his hands and his heels.

The dragon spewed fire, again, and hopped two feet closer.

Draco stepped away from the group of snickering ministry members. Jesus, Potter! How many scenes could he make in a day? Draco, never having pinned Harry to making these type of entrances, looked over his shoulder at the ministry members, truly embarrassed for himself, as well as Harry—or, Judas Cliffdale. Wherever the real Judas Cliffdale was, raised to be elegant and graceful in all situations, he was probably squirming with anger at Harry's portrayal of him. His eyes narrowed as he walked toward Harry. He pulled his wand out, "Pufflyflit, I told you not to hide in Judas's room, didn't I?"

The small dragon looked up at him, shamefully, and then back at Harry. It scrunched its tiny, seemingly harmless, nose.

"_Pufflyflit_? PUFFLY?" Harry asked, exasperated, as Draco stepped between he and the small dragon. Harry, knowing it was way too late to try and escape the situation with dignity, crawled onto his knees and then jumped onto his feet. He stood behind Draco, glaring at the tiny dragon. He was obviously Draco's pet, or something of the sort. He was so innocent looking, this little thing. But, boy, had Harry had a surprise when the thing had hid in the covers of his bed and decided to start spewing fire at him when he had been trying to take a nap. He brushed his hands together, as if to rid of the dirt. He scoffed, just to be Cliffdale-like about it. "As in soft and innocent? As in completely opposite of this fire-spewing... thing! Pufflyflit, _unbelievable_."

Draco turned around, smirking harder than ever, "You can't defend yourself against a _half-foot_ dragon, Cliffdale?"

"I didn't want to hurt it! It's too cute—purposely, I suppose—stupid, innocent, big eyes! You could have killed me!"

Draco just stared as Harry pushed him out of the way, having been the divider between the two. He didn't know what to do with himself, and he couldn't pull his eyes away. Harry was rolling up his sleeves, glaring at the tiny dragon. Oh, God, this was an ACT? Good lord! Pufflyflit seemed to sense that Harry wasn't going to hurt him, probably with one look from Draco, who was only smiling at him in a very good-natured way. The tiny dragon, connected to Draco, them having been together since Draco was a boy, knew Harry was no threat. He looked away from the dragon and back to the ministry members, feeling his face fill with warmth. They were all chuckling, but some were at least trying to hide it. He pointed at Harry, carelessly, as if this were no big deal. "Judas doesn't like dragons, see. He's been this way since we were kids."

At this point, Harry was bouncing around Pufflyflit, punching his fists into the air as if preparing for a fight.

Draco, amazed, shook his head and had to blink his eyes to keep from seeing Harry Potter doing these things.

"Right, well, he's... always been _eccentric_, hasn't he?" Asked the acting Minister of Magic, who had been appointed.

"No," Draco answered, with a grin, as he glanced back at Harry. He smirked, "He's always been _out of his mind_."

Harry spun around with his arms outstretched on either side of him, as if he had nothing to hide, "Spoken like a true best friend, Draco—the truth never slips past you!" He leaned forward, and as he did so, his right arm pulled into his chest, his left arm still up in the air. He bowed down, over his right arm. His left fingertips wiggled in the air before he pulled himself right back up until his spine was perfectly straight. He sauntered away from the tiny dragon, toward the ground of high-ranking officials. He offered his hand out to the first woman, who instantly took it, her eyelashes fluttering to an excited heartbeat. "It was nice to meet you. Would you mind if I walked you out? Oh, my, that is a lovely wrap, miss?"

The woman weakly murmured her name.

Draco, still facing Pufflyflit, was nearly speechless. The time Harry seemed to be having was that of a good time. He seemed so at ease being this... character. It was such a change from who Draco was used to seeing. Even having been pretending to Judas, so far, when he had been around Harry, he had been the same intense, brooding, completely complex favorite son of their world. But, now he was out of his element. Very, very out of his element. Slowly, he turned around, too, his eyes fixedly examining Harry, wondering what had gotten into him. Something had definitely changed.

"Oh, you're the head of the Department of Health! How splendid! Tell me, is the male anatomy as complex on paper?"

This was Judas Cliffdale, leading this woman out the front door, their arms linked.

Draco's lips were softly agape, disturbed by the newly awed sensation rippling through his body, through his chest. Having already said his salutations to the ministry officials, before Harry and Pufflyflit had come thundering down the entrance hall's grand staircase, he hadn't anyone to snap him out of his slight daze, because they were all walking out of the front doors, following Harry and the woman outside and onto the front steps. He followed them right out, silently.

Harry, along with four men and the woman he had been talking to, were gathered on the top step.

Draco joined them, his eyes down on the cement step platform.

"Draco, again, thank-you so much. You're such a wonderful young man," offered the woman Harry had spoken to.

Draco forced a light smile. But, inside, he felt anything but carefree and light. The realization of the last two days had finally hit him right in the gut, fully. This was Harry Potter standing beside him. Draco needed answers. He needed to know where his father was. He needed to know what they were going to do with him. He needed to know every single one of Potter's moves. He was in this, now, and he wanted to be in it, fully. If he was going to be lying to his mother and to their entire world, he wasn't going to do it half-ass. It was a very serious, dangerous situation. He couldn't call Harry _Potter_, again. The risk would easily ruin everything if found out or overheard. Whatever Harry Potter was doing, it was big. He had faked his own murder. He had torn fear through the hearts of all wizards clearly standing on the side of Good and light. He was risking big-time. No fucking wonder he was always brooding. He had a job to do.

Draco wrapped both of his hands around the woman's, "No, thank-_you_, Marcy." Oh, it was so forced.

Harry was humming beside him, quite cheerfully.

One of the men glanced from Draco, about to have said something, too, to Harry, "What is it?"

Harry's eyes had been locked onto Draco's profile, "I'm so happy, because today, sir, I found my friends."

Draco blinked, dropping the woman's hands in his. He looked right at Harry, noting the melody. Oh, no.

The man chuckled as he and Harry shook hands, "Had they been missing, young mister Cliffdale?"

Harry chuckled back, expertly, but he knew he came off too arrogant. He toned it down, "No, sir, they're in my head."

Draco's eyes fell down onto his feet, his top teeth pulling over his dry bottom lip to keep from snorting with laughter.

The man blinked at Harry and then forced a smile, as if he were trying to figure out if Harry had been being rude. He forced a small laugh, but when he dropped Harry's hand, Harry could sense that he did it gladly. He turned stiff in Harry's direction, though he shouldn't have if he'd known where in the hell Harry was coming from. But, Harry's only duty, at the moment, was to portray himself as Draco Malfoy's best friend. He looked back at Marcy, the Head of Health at the ministry, and smiled at her, flashing pearly white teeth that had never been quite so perfect, before. He was getting used to them. They were flawless. In fact, he had been looking at his new image in the mirror for a good thirty-minutes of the last couple of hours. He couldn't help it. Judas Cliffdale was just so pretty.

Marcy, a woman who was in her early thirties, admittedly flushed, and then blushed, right in front of them all, shy.

Draco suppressed the urge to laugh as he looked back at the man who had taken a hold of his hand, "Good day, sir."

"I'll see you Sunday morning!"

Harry jumped on the chance, clasping his hand on Draco's shoulder, "Sunday morning is everyday for all I care!"

Draco wanted to slap his own forehead, laughing so hard inside, "Judas, _really_, now is not the—"

Harry squeezed his shoulders, his eyes purposely enlarged with innocence, "And, I'm not scared! Light my candles—"

"TIME," Draco quickly interjected him with a sharp nudge of his elbow to Harry's side, talking over him.

Their eyes met.

"But, I'm in a _daze_, Draco."

Draco turned to Harry, fully, entertained. He said nothing, however. Potter quoting Nirvana for Draco's sake? Strange.

"Why are you in a daze?" Asked Marcy and one of the four men who had not yet spoken.

Harry pulled his hand away from Draco's shoulder, whimsically, and started, backward, down the front steps, "Tell them, Draco!" He insisted, motioning his hands out, palms faced upward, for Draco to speak what he had already acknowledged. Rather than looking annoyed, now, Draco seemed like he was trying not to laugh. Not even his eyes were blank and empty, but rather light-filled. He crossed his arms over his chest and tossed his hair a little so it brushed off of his cheek. "Go on, tell them why I'm in a daze!"

Draco looked at the five pairs of questioning eyes. He smiled, finally, widely, a smile he rarely ever smiled, "He's in a daze because he found God."

"AMEN, MALFOY! A-fucking-men!" Harry threw his arms up into the air as he trotted down the steps, coolly. "Amen!"

Draco didn't apologize to the Ministry members. They had expressions on their faces that spoke of astonishment. There was Judas Cliffdale, now going to be known to the Ministry members as a neurotic, cursing, beautiful, strange young man. Instead, having already said goodbye to them, he stepped backward from the small group he had been standing with, his hands held behind his back. He looked them all over, nodded his head down, once, and then turned, completely, unlatching his hands from behind him. He trotted down the front steps, too, to catch up with Harry. And, he did, "I can't believe you."

Harry was laughing so hard, "It's not my fault! I was given instructions to be whoever I wanted to be—"

"He'll kill you, you know, when this all over and done with," Draco interrupted him, referring to Judas.

Harry turned to him, as they walked, still laughing, "If I'm not already dead."

Draco mocked loud laughter, and then stopped, abruptly, to make it obvious that it wasn't a funny subject.

They kept walking to nowhere in particular. They were walking toward the front gates of the Malfoy estate in the distance. The afternoon was quite dark. It was a little rainy, but it felt nice. If it had been sunny, it wouldn't have fit the mood quite so well. Things, while easy on the outside, were not so easy for either of them on the inside. There was a huge gap between them. Neither really knew what to say to the other. It was just as awkward as ever, with Draco wrapping his arms around his chest, as if to protect himself, and Harry fidgeting, with his hands shoved into his pockets, in an attempt to do the same thing.

Draco finally glanced to his left, to Harry, "I want to know where my father is."

"Okay."

Draco blinked, "Okay?"

Harry looked at him, "I said okay, would you rather me tell you no?"

"No," Draco bit back at him, a little put off by flat-out, granted wish of answers, "I just didn't expect you to say yes."

Harry shrugged his shoulders up, awkwardly, "Malfoy," he started, as if to make an attempt at a pact. But, then he faltered in what he wanted to say, as they passed the shrubs that lined the walkway, now passing exquisite gardens that led up to the gated entry way. The gates were magnificent, and as they got closer, Harry found himself more and more in awe. They were made out of some kind of rod-iron, but there was a gold tone in them. There were spikes, at the top, and the Malfoy crest, a crest he had seen on Lucius's robes once or twice before, was imbedded in extraordinary colors that glimmered and suited the same gold tone of the gates, themselves. He turned himself to Draco a little more, giving his full attention. "We've had our differences—"

"We've had more than differences, Harry."

Harry's eyes drifted to his, "Did you just call me Harry?"

Draco flushed, but said nothing in return. He knew Harry wasn't making reference to the fact that someone could have been hearing or listening to them and wondering why Draco was calling Judas Cliffdale by Harry. The real acknowledgment was over the fact that Draco had never, EVER, called Harry by his first name—not ever, not even once after all of their years together. It hadn't been a big deal when Harry had called Draco by _Draco_, rather than Malfoy. It was different, mostly because it had always been Harry who separated the chance of them being friends, or even acquaintances. He made his view on Draco clear, and he always had. But, Draco calling Harry... Harry? It was almost unprecedented, "What were you going to say?"

Harry stopped walking. Draco stopped a couple of feet ahead of him, and then he turned around, "You called me Harry."

Draco itched at the back of his head, "Don't make a big deal out of it."

Harry couldn't help but grin, suddenly, "If you hadn't been Draco Malfoy, and I hadn't been Harry Potter, things would have been different, you know." Draco didn't look convinced, at all. "No, really. If we weren't us, I think we would have been inseparable from the moment we met."

"You mean, if I hadn't been a Malfoy, at all, and therefore not a gigantic bastard?" Draco asked, unimpressed.

Harry snorted with genuine laughter, nodding honestly, "Exactly! If you would have been a nice, normal kid!"

"_Please_, the only reason you turned away from me was because I insulted Weasley—"

"No, that's not true," Harry said, after him, as Draco turned away and started for the gates, again. But, the platinum-headed wizard didn't stop, again, no. So, Harry was forced to follow after him, but he didn't mind. The further they got away from the Malfoy estate, and the further Draco walked from the front doors, the better light Harry saw him in. He had never tried to take Draco out of the situation he was in. He had always just BEEN a Malfoy, defined solely by his last name. But, things were different, now, and openly so. Loyalties that had once been were no longer important. He had been betrayed by the people he had always seen in the best light because they were Gryffindors, or because he had grown up knowing them to be decent human beings. But, he had been betrayed by these people, so who was to say that Malfoy, who he had judged solely by name and status, was any worse of a friend than, say, Hermione could have been?

"Don't lie. Weasley was your little sidekick from the moment you two banged heads, you great oafs of boys."

Harry's eyebrows lifted, surprised, "I hear a hint of... what is that, anyway, Malfoy? Bitterness? _Jealousy_?"

"Neither," Draco bit over his left shoulder, still holding himself tight. "It's the truth, that's what it is."

"It's obviously _not_ true, because we are not oafs. I'd think my physical stature would put that to rest—"

"Oh, I'm sure your physical stature has put many-a-men and women to rest." What? Draco mentally scoffed at himself.

Harry was grinning, hard, enthralled. Draco was being... pouty, "If I'm not mistaken, we decided that was your department."

"Right," Draco agreed, with a loud, sarcastic laugh. Once more, he stopped, abruptly, to signify he wasn't amused. He turned around, now, dropping his arms to his sides, his eyes having narrowed a great deal over the last couple of minutes of darting and having pointless discussion with Harry. This pointless discussion hadn't since given him any of the answers he knew he rightfully deserved. "Right, I'm the promiscuous one," he lightly hit at Harry, in a tone that suggested the subject was closed. "Tell me why it was Weasley instead of me."

Harry blinked, speechless. He stopped, "Malfoy..."

Draco didn't move, nor did he make a face, "I want to know."

"Draco," he said, and then started to laugh, shakily, as he started walking, again, "How could you _not_ know?"

"The same way you can not know about why I despise you so much."

Harry squinted. He stopped, again, and turned to Draco, completely confused, "Malfoy, those are very different—"

"No, they're not. I know why it was Weasley and not me. I was arrogant. I didn't know, at the time, you had the hero-complexion—"

"Oh, for God's sake," Harry muttered, turning away from him with a slightly annoyed roll of his eyes. "I don't have—"

"Oh, _please_," Draco loudly quipped, standing completely immobile, feet behind Harry. "You not having a hero-complexion is like me not having an elitist complexion. It's who you are, and it was who you were. At the first sign of someone picking on Weasley, you needed to defend, and by God, I'd say your defensiveness turned into quite the prized charm. You and Weasley did end up best friends—"

"I didn't like you because you thought you were so much better than everyone. That doesn't give me a complexion."

"Sure it does. Had you not had the complexion, you would have known that I _was_ better than Weasley."

WHAT! Harry was flabbergasted at the arrogance and self-confidence that was pulsating off of Malfoy. He was gifted with this conceited pull he had over people. He was like a magnet. He easily pulled people into his world, into confrontation, just for his own amusement. He didn't have to _try_ to make people like him. He seemed perfectly okay when people did not, indeed, like him. Harry knew exactly the way that Malfoy thought about such issues. He thought, if someone didn't like him, it was much better off that way, like it was meant to be that way. But, saying that he was better than Ron, saying that HE was a better person than Ron, was a huge, gigantic laugh, "You're so lucky we're not in a place where I could hex you."

Draco, unaffected, smirked, his hands on his sides, "You honestly think Weasley was the better choice for a friend?"

"Why don't we think about this," Harry spoke up, loudly, obnoxiously. His fingertip placed on his chin, pretending to think really hard about what Draco was asking. He had to be kidding! He approached his equally-aged... mock-of-a-friend, his green eyes squinted, intensely. "First of all, have we forgotten who YOU are and who I am? Your father was after me. Therefore, us being friends was always a sham placed into your head by your father. I would have been used. Malfoy, if I had come over to your house for a holiday, like I have at Ron's, I never would have left because your father would have murdered me—or, even worse, given me up to Voldemort while I was sleeping. Second of all, your head is so big that we never would have gotten along. Third of all, you're a Slytherin, and I'm a Gryffindor—enough said. Fourthly, your sarcasm conflicts with my sarcasm. Lastly, you're too pretty to have been by my side fighting—you're too much of a pansy-ass to ever have stuck by my side in battle." He paused to take a deep breath, his eyes finally meeting Draco's from having been flying around in the air above Draco's head. He was surprised, and a little uneasy, at the very unimpressed look Draco was giving him. "However, to your credit, and not to take anything from Ron, but you're way too smart to have been able to walk into certain situations that Ron and I have—blindly."

Draco tilted his head, his arms crossed over his chest, "Are you done, yet?"

"I think so," Harry laughed, intrigued by the knowing, skeptical tone of voice opposite of him.

"Excellent, then why don't we take a look at history, shall we?"

Harry grumbled, "I don't think I have a choice—"

"You're right, you don't," Draco cut him off, starting to circle him, looking him over. But, Harry didn't like this, so he turned around with Draco so they were always face to face. He continued to walk, knowing that, eventually, Harry was going to get very dizzy. "History recalls that the very first time we met, you didn't know who I was or who my father was. You didn't like that I was arrogant and had insulted that monstrous giant you called your friend—therefore beginning my acknowledgment of your hero complexion," he retorted the first claim. "If we had been friends, you would have known that I was always against Voldemort. I liked using him to scare you, but I never supported him. My father wouldn't have turned you over to Voldemort. He would have tried, but, by then, if we had been best friends, like you and Weasley, I would have staked out and hid with you until we could have found somewhere else to hide. Little do you know, my loyalties to you, as my enemy, have always been greater than you'd ever expect—greater than the loyalty I've ever had to a friend, to anyone—imagine what they would have been like if we had been best friends. I would have been possessive and protective as all hell."

Harry was staring at him.

"Third, the only reason you think we never would have gotten along is because your head is just as big as mine, no matter how you try to deny it. You may not be arrogant in the way that you think I am, but you're perfectly content in your abilities. Had we been friends, our conceit added together would have meant school domination. We would have balanced each other out—to put a twist on your good-versus-evil speech from yesterday, I would have been smug conceit, and you would have been innocent conceit. We would have made the perfect team." He stopped circling Harry, uncrossing his arms from his own chest. He widened his eyes a bit, giving a pause for Harry to interject about anything he had so-far-yet stated. But, the brown eyes of Judas Cliffdale were laughing, and he hadn't a word to respond with, at least not yet. So, he continued. "Fourth, you're about as much of a Gryffindor as I am. You're brave, that's why you're a Gryffindor—that whole _courage_ bit. But, I don't doubt you'd have been put in Slytherin had you not had your hero-complex on so tightly that you could have strangled yourself the day of sorting. Fifth, you've always loved my sarcasm, even as my enemy. How else could you have developed that wry, charming bitterness, Potter? You got it_ from me_."

Harry was standing, now, stuck to his very spot, while Draco began to swallow him, once more, in a slow, drawn circle.

"And, here we are, half of your friends having betrayed you, about to address the loyalty to you, as your school nemesis, that I would have had in battle." The last issue Harry had so lightly inflicted upon Draco was the least carefree issue of all. While Harry had just been responding to Draco's original question about how Weasley had been a better choice than him, Harry hadn't taken it to be too deep or serious. He had a habit of doing that. In the halls of Hogwarts, the classrooms, the Great Hall, and even in lavatories, whenever he had glanced at Harry, a dark, very intense shell coated over his face. Yet, when he had spoken to his friends, the intensity had never shown, which meant it had never been alleviated. Having probably been used to seeing Harry everyday, his friends were used to the look. But, Draco saw it for what it was, and he always had. Every year, the darkness on Harry's face had gotten darker, deeper, uglier, and nastier.

Draco stood in front of him, silently. Their eyes were locked, almost in a way that they were battling. But, he took a step forward, closing the two feet between them until it was one foot, and then a half of a foot. There was a vulnerability about Potter that, perhaps, only Draco could see. It was something Draco FELT that he could see. He didn't think he was wrong, and he never had, by seeing this look. It was there. It just wasn't apparent to everyone. Harry wasn't just Harry Potter to Draco. He was Potter—which was a completely different person than Harry (as his friends called him) or, to the world and enemies, Harry _Potter_. There was only one person who called Draco, _Malfoy_, in the exact same way—and it was Harry, "As for my loyalty in battle, I suppose we'll find out in due time, won't we?"

"By the time battle roles around, I probably won't be here. We'll be back at Hogwarts," Harry muttered, avoiding Draco's eyes.

Draco half smiled, "Won't you have to be sorted?"

Harry's eyes finally shot up into Draco's, intensely, "Yes, I will, but even so—"

"Even so, Judas Cliffdale is my supposed best friend, whatever house he's in. I won't leave your side, Potter, and I'm not going to, now, so I suggest," he started to hiss, under his breath, as his hands placed down on Harry's broad, toned shoulders. He fidgeted with Harry's collar with his right hand's fingertips. He smoothed down a small wrinkle with his palm, then, on Harry's chest, with a smirk, and suggestively glanced back up at him. Harry was so rigid, staring at Draco as if he were mad. But, when he saw Draco's smirk, he growled. This caused Draco to chuckle, but only to himself. "I suggest you get used to me, Potter. Like I said, you're all I've got, and I'm all you've got—and by the end of this, we're only going to have each other. If my loyalty is an issue, take a look around. You could have killed my father, for all I fucking know, and I'm standing here, with you, and only with you, having walked into your entire fiasco just as blindly as you're looking at me right now. I'm here, aren't I? Have I said a word? No. Am I going to? No. Am I going to help you? Yes. Am I going to be by your side every god-damn step you take, even if you're so tired of me that you're thinking about killing me off?" He paused, snapping Harry's collars up, sharply, his eyes staring right into Harry's, which were, somehow, a tad bit flickered with the very familiar shade of green. "_Fuck_ yes. And, do you know why?"

Harry didn't wait for him to answer himself, again, "Because we want the same things, Draco."

Draco was silent for a long minute before his mouth started to twitch with a rare smile, "Precisely, you learn fast."

Harry reached up between them, with his hands, and gave Draco a small, prompt shove, "Oh, and I'm still not gay, Malfoy. Get the fuck offa me."

And, when Harry turned away, they were both laughing.

They walked, together, back toward the house.

When they reached the steps, again, all of the ministry members, having been escorted out in carriages, they had passed on the way back to the house, Draco charged up about five steps and then sat down on the sixth. Harry, standing on the very bottom stop, on his tip-toes, his hands buried into his pockets, squinted at him, "I'm really not gay, you know."

"I know," Harry answered, but he wasn't sure it was the truth or a lie. "We're supposed to be flamboyant, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Draco answered, distantly, watching as the carriages parted through the gloriously opened gates.

"What, did I hurt your feelings when I pushed you away?" Harry peaked up, from the steps, to Draco.

Draco's eyes slowly found the brunette, again, and he smiled. He pushed himself up, "Yeah, _that's it_. Dream on."

Harry laughed, at Draco's heels, following him up the stairs until he closed the door behind him, "Let's do something."

Draco turned around, "Us, do something? You mean _together_?" Harry rolled his eyes. "I've never heard something so—"

"Yes, Draco," Harry droned, walking past him and toward the dining hall, once more, "it's unfounded and absurd!"

Draco grinned, trailing Harry by a few, cool, independent feet, "We could play with Pufflyflit."

Harry turned around, laughing. He stopped, happy to hear this topic being brought up. For a moment, it fell silent. Draco was standing there, about ten feet away, his hands at his sides. It had never occurred to Harry that Draco would ever play with anything in an innocent, loving way. But, the way he spoke sounded very caring and adoring. He must have had a lot of affection for Pufflyflit. But, the terror-inflicting, bite-sized version of a Norwegian Ridgeback was the very last thing that had made Harry turn around and stop, without even having told himself to do so. It sounded like Draco had never uttered such a sentence in his life. He sounded child-like and sweet, innocent and not at all jaded or bitter. He sounded like someone else. And, Harry, overcome by this version of Draco, for those few, disbelieving, fleeting seconds, could only find the strength to nod, "Yes, tell me all about Pufflyflit."

Draco had already flushed, "Look, I don't—"

Harry walked toward him, ignoring the sudden reinstallation of adult coolness, "I want to play with Pufflyflit!"

Draco's lips, a mess of confusion and embarrassment, collapsed together with... appreciation, "Potter—"

Harry walked around Draco, grabbing his wrist, "C'mon, let's go find Pufflyflit! What is he, exactly?"

Draco was being dragged toward the staircase, but he didn't struggle _too_ hard, trying not to feel too—oh, damnit—_touched_ that Harry was being so persistent to find Pufflyflit, now, so that they could _play_ with him. Draco hadn't even realized that the words had come out of his mouth, originally. It had come out so sweetly, almost like he was seven years old, without a drawl or a dull tone. He did have a voice underneath those shields. He used those tones with everyone, friends and enemies alike. But, he only let his unguarded voice free when he was alone, or he was just waking up, or when he was extremely, extremely drunk on alcoholic Butterbeer. He tugged Harry back from the stairs, "I don't want to—"

Harry, on the bottom step, turned around, "No, you specifically _suggested_ that we could play with Pufflyflit."

Draco stared up at him, unaware of what to say. God damn! His mouth twisted in discomfort, "Pufflyflit is off limits."

Harry tilted his head to the right, his face tilted down. He liked the small speck of Draco that had just shown itself.

"What?" Draco finally asked, agitated. The silence was killing him! Ugh, Potter making eye-contact with him was bad!

Harry let go of Draco's wrist, gently, and then gave him a small shove with his hand, "Fine, I'll find him myself."

Draco, in awe, watched as Harry took the steps two at a time, and then disappeared around a corner, "CLIFFDALE!"

"MALFOY!" Harry's voice echoed, distantly, throughout the very empty entrance hall.

Draco was smiling all of the way up the stairs, until he found Harry, who was grinning, lounging against a wall.

Harry's eyes intensely locked onto Draco, as he walked by, as if Harry was invisible, "Do you play Wizard's Chess?"

"What,_ will I lick your chest_?" Draco asked with a huge smirk, as he opened his bed-room door. Convenient, location Potter, really. He pushed the door open and walked through, leaving it just as open for Harry to enter. He walked over to his sitting area and collapsed down into one of the dark couches. The room was dreary and gray, now that the day had faded away into the same sort of fate. He leaned over his knees, knowing by the sound of the door closing that Harry had let himself in and closed the door. He pulled up his robe, over his knees, revealing a pair of gray trousers. He untried his shoelaces. "We'll play a round."

Harry sat down opposite of Draco, admiring the room for its glory, "A _round_? How about a match? We have time."

"No, _you_ have time," Draco corrected, under his breath, and glanced up at Harry, distracted. "I have a meeting."

"You most definitely do not have a meeting with anyone, don't lie! You just don't want to play me."

Draco looked up at Harry, surprised by the direct feistiness. Kind of cute, Potter, "We already discussed this."

"No, you discussed, and then I left."

Draco pulled his right shoe off, "I'll play you for it. You win, I don't go. I win, I go." Then, the left shoe. "I'll win."

Harry leaned up over his knees, too, looking down at his own uncomfortable feet, "You win, you can ask me _anything_."

Draco smiled. He pulled the wand from his pocket and swished it at his shoes. A few seconds later, they were hopping toward his closet. The closet door swung open, they hopped in, and then the door closed. But, when Draco went to turn back to Harry, the closet shuddered. He looked over to see what the commotion was, but then he felt his cheeks flush. His door was coughing and hissing something about Draco needing to get some spell-oh-smell odor relievers. He looked back at Harry, ignoring his door, but Harry, leaned over his knees, his hands both untying his left shoe, was snorting with very quiet laughter, his mouth wide open and delighted. He grimaced, "The slightest odor sets her off, even the smell of mud—"

Harry chortled, loudly, in disbelief, "Merlin, _shut up_, Malfoy! Your feet _stink_, god forbid! You're a _man_."

"That's not what his father says," chimed his door, who then giggled as Harry laughed, hard, sitting up straight, again.

Draco picked up the tension ball, that resting beside him on the couch, and hurled it at the door, "Traitor!"

Harry looked over, his mouth agape, as the door turned transparent. The ball disappeared into the closet, "Malfoy!"

"Oh, he does this all of the time. He has quite the temper!"

Draco looked back at Harry, unapologetic, "Ignore her, she just likes the attention." He then faked a cough to his fist, staring at his door with teasing eyes. "Attentionwhore!" His door, offended, turned her proverbial back to him. The inside of the door was now the outside, and the door latches changed sides. He started laughing, loudly, and looked back at Harry. He was staring at Draco like he was some sort of alien. Draco quickly dropped his laugh, as if it had never happened. Potter had never heard him laugh freely, nor had seen Draco's entire face light up and his tone of laugh break strange barriers that were so shocking they were innocent and happy. Then, again, in the same aspect, Draco hadn't heard Harry, either. He cleared his throat, pressing the side of his fist against his lips, as he calmed down. "Don't worry, she'll get over it."

"I WILL NOT!" Muffled his door from the other side of the closet.

Draco chuckled, again, at his door, and chimed, "You know I love you. I was just having a bit of fun! Fun is forbidden!"

Harry glanced at Draco's fireplace, "Do you think the Ministry has opened up the Floo Network in here?"

Draco glanced at him, "They have, I talked to them about it. We could have used it, before. It would have just looked suspicious."

Harry, now without his shoes, looked away from the exquisite, huge, wooden and stone fireplace. It was amazing that one could live like this. The Malfoy estate was stunning. He couldn't help but to think that, years before, the Black home was such as fancy as the Malfoy's home. But, the House of Black had never looked anything like Draco's room, he supposed. It had always been dark at number 12 Grimmauld place, even when there were candles lit. But, Draco's room, dark as the Malfoy's name was, was void of all negatively swirling vibes. It was a beautiful, very large, very clean room. His eyes flickered to Draco, wondering what he was thinking about, his eyes staring down at his socked feet so intently. Harry didn't want Draco going to his meeting. He didn't want Draco, no matter how beneficial it would have been to Harry's cause, to get involved with the ranks of Voldemort, certainly not yet. Whoever Draco had been to him in the past was nothing compared to who Draco was to him, already. He was the only confidant and friend Harry had, and he didn't think anyone else in the world would have been better suited—not one damn other human being. He grinned, leaning over his knees, again, with his elbows resting on them, "Cornwell looked good."

"Strange, wasn't it?" Draco suddenly chirped, looking right up at him. "He was wearing robes. And, he shaved."

Harry grinned, "I know, he looked like a different person. Did you see the way he looked at you?"

Draco squinted, awkwardly, feeling strange, suddenly, but he didn't move, "No, how was he looking at me?"

"Proudly," answered Harry, very honestly. "There was this look in his eyes... indescribable. He probably got all done up like that for your birthday." He paused, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He wasn't trying to force anything, here. It was genuine interest. He liked Cornwell as a man, at least from what he knew of him, so far. He was a lot like Sirius, and it wasn't just their shared last name that made Harry think this. There was a relatively laid-back, friendly, but funny sort of personality that came off of him. He had had a great sense of humor, even the very first time they had met. But, he saw Draco try to hide a pleased smile. "Go ahead."

Draco coughed, "What?"

Harry gave a nod with his head, unobtrusively, "Smile."

Draco, taken aback, shot his middle finger up at Harry. It was the only think he could think to do, "Don't."

"Don't think that I should insist to see you smile? You want to, you know you do. Do it, I won't tell."

Draco ignored him, but not nastily so. He just looked back down at their feet. Harry's shoes, dark brown ones with shiny soles, were glistening, somehow. He looked over his shoulder to see that there was a tiny speckle of light that was making the shine so enthralling. One of the candles on the end-table at the end of his couch had lit itself. It flickered for a moment, as if someone were blowing on it, before it stood at straight attention, solid and unfaltering. His eyes moved back to Harry. It didn't feel like summer, anymore. It felt like evening or nighttime in the fall or winter, both of them wearing robes that were too heavy for summer but perfect for colder weather. He leaned down to Harry's shoes and nicked the one that was closest to his reach. He pulled it upward, "If I win, I get your shoes."

Harry laughed, unguarded. Sighing, he leaned over his knees even more, "Why would you _want_ my shoes?"

Draco tossed the shoe back next to the other, "Are you kidding? I can sell them on WEBAY."

Harry laughed even harder, acknowledging the insinuation. WEBAY was part of the Wizard Wireless Connection Network. It stood for _Wizard's Evolution of Buying Anonymous Yada_. It was where most wizards now bought their supplies for cheap. It had really sprung into their culture the year before. The whole process had been too complicated for Harry, and he had stuck with the idea of going to stores to actually buy things. He always said that WEBAY was just a way that their society was going to rid of wizard-to-wizard communication relations, but that was only because, secretly, he couldn't figure out the damn system for the life of him. He'd get frustrated with the outbidding procedures, and, eventually, gave up trying, all together, at buying the latest Harry-Potter wad of gum that someone had been selling for ten galleons. TEN GALLEONS for a supposed wad of gum that Harry had spit out after a Quidditch match the year prior. "In that case, where's Pufflyflit? Not only is he a tiny dragon, but he's also the Minister's _son's_ Pufflyflit! He'd be worth a fortune!"

Draco laughed, finding himself more than comfortable in the conversation. He sat back, relaxed, "I'd kill you."

"You really love that little terror, don't you?"

Draco glanced at him. Silence fell between them, immediately. Had Harry Potter just asked him that? "He's not a terror."

Harry, flushing, rubbed his hands over his face. He was being personable with Draco, here, in a way he never was with anyone. It brought out a different side inside of Harry to see that Draco was reacting differently to things than he had ever thought possible. He had heard Draco laugh, really laugh. It was still tingling in his mind, like it was going to settle there until the next time he heard it. He grinned, finally, to himself, unrestricted, and leaned back against his cushion, too. Draco had very, very big, dark, comfortable furniture. He dropped his hands down on either side of him, giving up, staring opposite at the other man. This was who he was going to be around, now. And, it wasn't so bad. It really wasn't. He had decided earlier in the day to make things as easy on Draco as possible. It hadn't been his choice to get involved, therefore he shouldn't have had to deal with Harry coming in and frustrating the very specific _fuck_ out of his already hectic, loyal-less life, "He is a terror. He lit my robes on fire—"

"Such damage he did! Your robes are flame-resistant! All he wanted was for you to stop so he could examine you!"

Harry's nose twisted, "You mean, him jumping out from under my bed was—"

Draco threw his head back, and stuck his arms up into the air straight above his head, "I would have _loved_ to see that."

Harry smiled, but Draco didn't know. It was better that way, because it was a very real, very content smile, "C'mon," he said, as he pushed himself up. It was abrupt, but it, too, was much better that way. At the quick movement, Draco's head snapped back in place. His body was lounged out against his couch. His arms were relaxing at his sides. He rested his head right back on the cushions, his eyes extremely skeptical of what, _exactly_, "C'mon" entailed. But, Harry had ideas swirling in his head. They had already decided that, that night, they would need to meet somewhere neutral, and what better opportunity was there to go out looking for this place, or for any place, than Draco's birthday? It was an occasion that needed to be celebrated. "Don't look at me like that, I have plans for us."

Draco pushed himself up, groaning heavily, "You sound too excited to be talking about Wizard's Chess."

Harry turned away from him after swiping up his shoes, "We're going to Hogsmeade."

"Hogsmeade?"

Harry sat down on the side of Draco's couch, pulling his right leg over his left so he could put on his shoe. However doubtful Draco's tone was, Harry could see through it, easily, because of the slight look of intrigue that was etched onto the famous Malfoy—er, Cliffdale—features. He shook his head to himself, in awe of all of the new information he had been digesting over the last few days. He was going to take Draco Malfoy out to Hogsmeade for his birthday. And, if he wasn't going to go willingly, Harry was going to drag him. He was of age, now, which meant alcoholic Butterbeer which meant it wouldn't have to be consumed illegally. He shoved his shoes on and then stood up. He was feeling too lazy to bend down to tie his shoes, again, so he lightly swished the tip of his wand down by his hips. The laces tugged, strongly, and got to work.

Draco stood in front of him, finally, "I think it's not a good idea, not right now. It's dangerous, Harry."

Harry clasped his hand over Draco's shoulder and leaned in, his eyes on fire with excitement and mischief, "Exactly!"

Draco growled as Harry threw himself away and turned in a circle, looking around frantically, his hands outstretched. He said nothing as Harry cautiously approached the fireplace. He started looking around, trying to appear casual. But, it was obvious what he was doing, and they both knew it. He was looking for Draco's Floopowder. Eventually, after many small pots had been opened to emptiness, little trinkets and potion ingredients, Draco finally surged forward, "I swear, Potter, for someone as accomplished in the art of mystery as you are, supposedly, you're oblivious to the _most obvious_ of hiding spots." He grabbed at the center pot on his fireplace mantel. He pulled it down and shoved it into Harry's hands. "Plus, we can't go in robes, we'll look like idiots. We want to blend in, not stand out as Judas fucking Cliffdale and Malfoy fucking Potter. And, I have to tell my mother I'm leaving."

Harry, standing alone and still by the fireplace, watched as Draco walked toward the door, "Why?"

"I don't want her to think I've up and disappeared, too, do I? Stay here, I'll be back."

Harry was laughing. He pointed at Draco with one accusing index finger, "Wait a second."

Draco turned around at the door, "What?"

"You just referred to yourself as Malfoy fucking Potter."

"No," Draco disagreed, as he turned his bedroom doorknob. "I referred to _us_ as Malfoy fucking Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes, "You added that _fucking_ in there for a reason, didn't you? Just for giggles."

"Yeah, for _giggles_."

Harry clasped his left hand with his right and doubled over in mock-pain.

Draco squinted at the door, knowing it wasn't real pain. Oh, Jesus, what now, Potter? He was laughing, already, though.

Harry pulled his hand up into the air, "What... oh, wait...! What! RIGHT! HA! BITCH!" He flipped Draco off.

Draco snorted, closed the door behind him, and set off down the hall. For the first time that week, he laughed very freely.


	7. Father Figures

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** This chapter is a bit (er, a bit meaning twice as long) longer than the previous ones. Also, THANK-YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has reviewed. You guys are great and you rock. I appreciate it very much!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Seven

Father-Figures

It was around six in the evening when Draco and Harry descended upon Hogsmeade, and from the streets of Hogsmeade into the Three Broomsticks. It was dead. There were a few people there, but compared to how crowded the place had been two year prior, neither could understand how the pub had been able to stay open. It was Harry who had to drag Draco along to find a table. They took the table in the furthest corner to the left in the pub.

Six o'clock turned into seven o'clock, and seven rolled into eight and then to nine.

It was at this nine o'clock junction that they had both worked past three alcoholic Butterbeer specials each. As the hours passed on, more and more people had come into the pub. The chatter that surrounded the place was far more interesting than any of the conversation that was made, forcefully, between Harry and Draco.

Draco mostly sat back in his booth, with his eyes staring out the front windows, watching sketchy characters out on the street, while Harry tried to find interesting facts carved into the wooden table top. They had bursts of conversation every now and then, about favorite colors and the like, but, they both knew that everything Harry said in response to Draco was based on a lie. Hogsmeade, even more than the Malfoy estate, was suspect to prying eyes and ears. Maintaining identity was key.

But, as soon as nine fifteen rolled around, Harry had become extremely agitated. The pub was now crawling with dark wizards everywhere he looked. It wasn't as if they had any reason to be awkwardly looking at Harry, nor Draco. Judas and Draco were hardly innocents in the wrong pub. The only people brave and stupid enough to go trenching out into Hogsmeade, now, and even Diagon Alley, were those who had no reason to be afraid of Voldemort or Death Eaters, which meant that most of the people out were of dark magic or had ties and connections to Voldemort.

Draco leaned up over the table, his arms crossed under his chest. He had been watching Harry struggle with the night. For some reason, Draco hadn't wanted to leave. If they left, the only other place to go was back to his family's property, and he wasn't interested in that. Harry didn't seem to be, either, because he hadn't hinted at, or made the effort to hint at, leaving. But, Harry finished his Butterbeer way more quickly than Draco had. He downed his alcohol, but Draco never said a thing.

However, now, slightly buzzed and feeling brave, warm from his last sip of Butterbeer, he smirked, "Fun birthday, thanks."

Harry had been staring back at him, waiting for whatever he had to say. But, he didn't bother to stop his genuine laugh, "Yeah," he agreed, not apologizing. Whatever Draco had been planning back at the Malfoy estate, for his own birthday, was probably better than them sitting there, nearly in awkward silence for three hours, snacking on tortilla chips, sweetly mild salsa, alcoholic Butterbeer and some carbonated beverages in-between. He sat back against his booth, his hands laying out on the table. He stared down at them. "I never figured you to be a brooding drunk. You seem more like the—"

"Tipsy, giggling fool?" Draco asked for him, with a loud, easy laugh. "That's your loaded hero-complex, again."

Harry squinted at him, leaning up over the side of the table, too. Now that it was dark, their conversations had been coming more quickly and easily. He didn't know why the darkness had eased the tension between them, but it had. He might have assumed it was alcohol loosening their inhibitions, but he knew better. Every time his eyes had landed on Draco, he wanted to start talking, but he knew it would be taken the wrong way. He mostly waited for Draco to make conversation, "That makes no fucking sense, Malfoy. My hero-complex has nothing to do with _your_ elitist-complexion's somber drunk routine."

"Hmm," snorted Draco. But, he didn't retaliate. He just lifted his fourth Butterbeer to his lips. "You're exactly the kind of drunk I pictured you to be," he admitted, but he wasn't sure if he was telling the truth. Harry didn't answer him, just tilted his head with a grin. His face had turned its attention down onto the old, beat tabletop between them. The candles that were lit behind Draco's head, on the wall, and the lights from outside the front of the Three Broomsticks created a dark, yet enchanting, shadow over the unfamiliar features. But, even as he watched Harry, something about him seemed familiar. Even though his features were different, his smile, somehow, made Draco forget every other feature on his face. He grinned, too, as he took a sip from his dripping glass.

"I'm not drunk, Malfoy. I handle my alcohol well—"

"Bullshit, don't feed that to me! You've been ordering Light Butterbeers—don't think I didn't notice."

Harry snorted with loud laughter, throwing himself back against his booth seat. His hands left the table and roughly rubbed over his face, though he was still smiling. It wasn't like Draco was lying. Harry had been drinking Light Butterbeer, he had a cover to be protecting, and it would have been easier to forget that if he were downing the same sort of powerful drinking liquid that Draco was. He had, however, not realized that Malfoy had seen him motion to the bartender to make his drinks Light, "All right, fine, you've caught me." His hands parted at the center of his face, making shields on either side as he leaned his elbows onto the table, staring opposite of him. "I'm not much of a fun drunk, really, you wouldn't be impressed. I slur my words and cry."

Draco, intrigued with this honesty, smiled, "_You_ cry? Does your hero-handbook come with certain guidelines on that?"

"Well, I don't know, Draco, I haven't gotten that far in it," Harry returned, dropping his hands down, again. "_Lush_."

Draco chuckled, freely. Noting that Harry's fourth Butterbeer was already gone, now, he sat straight up, "BARKEEP!" He called, with his left hand up in the air. The bartender looked over at him, immediately. The only person who had been calling the bartender "Barkeep" was Malfoy, and it seemed that the man didn't have a problem with it, often bringing Harry and Draco their drinks, personally. Malfoy, being who he was, had people at his every beckon wanton. He saw Harry look over, too, paled. "Give me two of your strongest Butterbeers, and keep the barrel out—we'll be wanting a lot more of it!"

The bartender gave him a nod before he turned away, as did most of the other curious bar-floats.

Harry rested his cheek against his left palm, staring at Draco, "Fine, I'll have _one_, if that will make you happy."

"You're doing things to make me happy, now? I wonder what you'll be doing once you've chugged what I've got coming to you," Draco chimed, his eyes glazed over with honestly. He felt good. He felt loose. And, Harry wasn't loose enough, yet. Butterbeer had very different alcoholic ranges.

Students and kids had the lightest Butterbeer there was. It didn't have any alcohol in it, at all. Harry had been drinking the lightest Butterbeer above that—hardly enough to get even a five year old tipsy. There were about seven degrees of alcohol that had separated Harry and Draco's beverages.

Harry was still staring at him, not bothering to look away. He wasn't rolling his eyes, scoffing, and he didn't appear at all annoyed. Grinning, and knowing that Harry was more than willing to escape his entire world for the rest of the night, Draco leaned closer, curiously enthralled.

Harry pointed at him with his right hand, still resting on his left palm, his elbow on the table, "Was that a come on?"

"I don't know, I'll tell you at the end of the night."

Harry closed his eyes, breathing with unrestricted, unbiased laughter. His left elbow gave way. His palm slipped away from his cheek, and he collapsed a small cove down on the table, made with his arms. He lowered his face into the small, waiting circle. He felt warm, physically. He wasn't overheated. He just felt content, but he was extremely on edge. He wasn't arguing with Draco, because he had no reason to. He could place an enchantment on himself, anyway, before he started to drink heavily. This way, nothing would slip out that shouldn't have. It was a Cliffdale spell, one no one but the Cliffdales, and, now Harry Potter, knew. It tricked Veritaserum—that's how powerful it was. He was someone else, now, even as Harry Potter. His friends had betrayed him the year earlier, aside from Ron. Malfoy had been his closest ally, somehow, and it was about time they just... bonded. He looked up from his arms, his eyes glinting.

Draco smiled, freely, "I don't like how you're looking at me—what?"

Harry lifted his head up, slowly, and pulled his arms under the table, "You know, Malfoy..."

"Dramatic pause, nicely played, now get on with it," Draco returned without missing a beat.

"This whole flamboyant, gay thing you have going on, is it real?"

At the smirk on Harry's face, Draco felt a little intruded on, so he glowered, "I already told you. _No_."

No. Harry stood his head, "No, no, I don't think that's true. I think you are gay."

"Oh, Jesus, are you going to try and convince me that I'm gay? Don't waste your time, I've heard it all."

Harry sat up, very straight. Draco's alarmingly casual tone pulled him in, "You've heard it all?"

"Come on, you know how I am. If you know, the whole school knows. You don't think my friends have gone over this?" At Harry's silence, Draco pressed on. Perhaps the Light Butterbeer really had been taking a drastic effect on Harry, because his eyes were very glazed over. They followed every single eyelash flutter that Draco had given, some of them purposely just to see the way Harry reacted. He was leaned over, almost weakly. His cheeks were flushed red, even from the candlelight's bright glow. He was being completely open to conversation—nothing either one of them had ever been when regarding each other, not even Draco.

Harry's shield, for the first time ever, was down in front of Draco Malfoy.

At this, Draco's heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushed, and he quickly took advantage of the situation. If Harry Potter was all ears, Draco was going to give him a night he was going to remember—and it was only just beginning. "Don't you think Lucius itched at his head when I came home on the last day of holiday wearing _eyeliner_? I'm not gay. I'm a little feminine. It's as easy as that."

Harry was massaging his cheek bone with his palm, "You said you were in love with Potter."

"Not in love with! Admired, envied—in a completely platonic, straight way!" It was almost an automated response.

Harry only looked down at his hands, now, on the table, "You'd do him, don't lie."

Draco gasped, in disbelief. Potter was definitely under the influence. He frowned, a little put off, "Would not. Never."

Harry looked up at him with a doubtful smirk hinting at the corner of his mouth, "I bet he'd have done you if he knew—"

"Oh, fuck you," Draco cut him off and pulled his eyes away, furiously, trying not to be bothered by the laughter.

Harry had only been teasing him, just trying to get a rise out of him. Getting an innocent, friendly rise out of Draco was something he had never done, nor had ever imagined doing. But, he had done it without much effort. Draco had lost his cool very quickly, his eyes having turned from Harry, fully. He was looking over other people, now, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and defeat. No, he shouldn't have been so bothered so quickly. He could dish it out, but he couldn't take it? Was that how Draco Malfoy was? Or was this just because he drinking? Or, did it just have to do with Harry Potter, himself? The topic of Harry Potter? He couldn't help but feel eased and confident, still watching the pretty profile in front of him. He didn't move his eyes away, examining over the flawless skin and soft translucently radiant complexion. How did he make himself so pretty? Growing up, he had been a good-looking kid, but had always looked a little obnoxious, with features too intense for a young face. But, now, those features had shifted into their adult shapes, and his face had transformed so beautifully.

Harry coughed, loudly, and tore his eyes away from Draco, trying to forget he had just been admitting that Draco was pretty. Damn Butterbeer! Okay, well, it wasn't like Harry couldn't compliment a man on his looks. He acknowledged good looking men all of the time—but it wasn't in such an awe-inflicted way as it had just been. He sat up very straight, again. He kicked, hard, against Draco's foot, "I was just kidding, Christ."

Draco looked back at him, blankly. Ouch! His poor foot, "We should leave."

Harry rolled his eyes, resting back against his booth, staring at Draco very condescendingly, "You're a hypocrite."

Draco's left eye twitched. He kicked the back of his left foot against the front of the solid wooden plank that was the foundation of his booth seat. He did this to relieve the frustration he was feeling, "That was something I already knew, so forget it being an insult or a conversation starter—I'm annoyed with you, and I want to leave."

"Fine," Harry immediately spat, their eyes locked. "Get the fuck out of here, Malfoy, I don't care."

Draco clenched his teeth together and shot forward, suddenly, like a bullet, "I can't fucking stand you—"

Harry stayed where he was, absorbing in the seething expression and words coming to him, "I'm sorry? _Goodbye_!"

"I didn't ask for you to come along and screw up my entire life—"

"Fine," Harry said and started to slide out of his seat, to the left. "If you won't leave, I will. Go, go out, alone, and get yourself murdered."

Draco stared at him, as Harry stood up, glaring coldly at him, "I bet you're hoping I will! I hope Voldemort kills you, I swear I do. I do, I fucking really hate you."

"Don't, Malfoy. Go back home to your mansion and continue to whine about how Harry Potter ruined your entire life, you no-good, whining, ungrateful, disgusting, fuck-faced, liar of an incest-produced bastard. We're done, not that we ever even began."

Draco stood up, too, pushing his glass off of the table with his right arm as he did so. It smashed onto the ground. But, it was so noisy that no one noticed, not even the table to the left of theirs, or the one in front of it. Harry didn't look down at the glass, nor did Draco. Go back to his mansion and whine? Potter was a bastard, and he hadn't fucking changed. He thought he was so much better than everyone. And, what was that about hoping Draco was murdered? Even for an insult, that was going way beyond a line that should ever have been crossed by Harry fucking Potter. He slipped back down at the booth, giving up. Fine, Harry could leave. Draco didn't care, not right at that moment, "Yeah, I will. That's the only thing I'm good at, apparently. In the mean-time, don't ever step into my_ mansion_, ever again, you lonely, miserable, filthy mud-blood—now, fuck you and get out of my site before I slash you." He grabbed at a tortilla chip, dipped it in salsa, and then glanced back at the still immobile Judas Cliffdale, who was staring at him. "_Go_, go save the world for us bastards of incest. While you're at it, why don't you continue to support the tainting of pure blood—of magic—just for the sake of your precious little muggles—they're just making us weaker. _You're_ just making us weaker."

"That will always be the difference between you and I—you're selfish, concerned about the sanctity of your magic, and I could care a FUCK about that when people are being _murdered_ by people with the same mindset as you," Harry nearly shook with fury. "And, THAT, Malfoy, is why you and I were never friends, because you've got the Hitler complexion, which, by my moral scale, is a whole LOT fucking notches of _worse_ than a hero-complexion."

Draco only saw Harry once he was outside the Three Broomsticks, in the dark, with his hood pulled over his head. But, he wasn't satisfied. He was furious. He smashed his tortilla chip down onto the table, beneath his palm. The crackle of the breaking chip did nothing to make him feel better, nothing at all. Fine, he was a product of some sort of incest. He never EVER thought into the mechanics of it. Cornwell and Narcissa were hardly immediately cousins—and hadn't even known at the time, because Cornwell hadn't been Cornwell Black. He'd taken his mother's name, having been shunned by most of his family for some big event that had happened in the past—but, by God, it wasn't like... like... they... GOD. Furious, Draco slid out of his seat, dropped a few galleons on the table, and charged out into the night to find some desperately-needed fresh air.

Once Draco was outside, things didn't get any better. It was dark, now, and every wizard had their cloak pulled up over their head so their faces couldn't be seen. He had pulled his own hood up over his head before he had even stepped out of the Three Broomsticks. Truth was, Draco wasn't safe being out by himself. It wasn't safe for anyone, least of all the son of the missing Minister. But, though the people who would have been a danger to him were on the same side as his father—Death Eaters—if Draco was taken in, he would be fed to Voldemort and forced to do service—something he had been already lucky enough to by-pass because his father had been around. Things were different, now.

There were still stores open, so the street wasn't too dark. He walked in the very center of the dirty and cobblestone road, being careful to avoid alleyways and very dark gaping holes between buildings. He didn't know where Harry had gone, and he would have been smart not to even give a damn, but, somehow, he was looking. He was looking for Harry fucking Potter, the bastard whose drunk character was now a, very CLEAR, MEAN drunk. He had snapped over such a small situation, and he had sputtered some crude things, "Son of a bitch."

It was only about five minutes later, while Draco was walking by a small, disgustingly dirty pub that his eyes caught onto a figure from inside. The person's hood was down. The grime on the window hardly made the details of Judas's face clear, but he knew it was Harry. There was a wash of relief that swarmed over him. He was all alone. Not just that night, walking in Hogsmeade, but in general. He had his mother, but she was in ten million different places as it was. But, Harry... he couldn't just let that go. He was in it, now, and he couldn't keep fucking it up—not that the whole shebang in the Three Broomsticks had been HIS fault, but... he shouldn't have been so defensive against the gay questions. His loyalty to Harry was hardly going to fade—and they both knew it. It had been built on its own, over the years.

Wait—who was Harry with, anyway?

Draco didn't waste a moment as he grabbed at the wobbly door handle of the pub. He walked in. It was crowded, surprisingly, even more than the Three Broomsticks had been. But, here, the crowd was much different. There were people their age there—and, was that Weasley? WEASLEY? He wondered to himself what Weasley's mother would have done if she knew Ron was there, albeit by himself, it seemed. But, he wasn't the only innocent-looking customer. It, then, occurred to Draco that the place most likely to have been filled with dark, dirty wizards was exactly the last place dark wizards would go looking for innocent people craving a Butterbeer.

The pub was small, but the bar was long. Harry was sitting on a stool, backward, his feet pulled up. His left arm was lounged out across the edge of the bar. He was deep in conversation with a blonde—a female blonde. Annoyed and without any shame whatsoever, Draco strode over toward them, his eyes curiously taking in the figure of this blonde woman. She was in a dark robe, as was everyone else, but, somehow, the way the material lay across her body just screamed of curves. And, Harry, or _Judas_, was just lapping it up, listening to this woman talk, not giving a fucking damn what she was saying, and it was so obvious.

Draco pulled the hood off of his head as he strolled across the pub. His hair seemed to be the brightest detractor there was, in the whole place, because people from every direction glanced at him as if he were crazy for being so bright when their world was so dull and gray. But, it was his hair—he couldn't help it. He let his hood drop, and when he was within ten feet of the bar, every single pair of eyes turned from Judas to Draco. Attention, also, came from Harry, whose mouth immediately twisted and eyes lit on fire. "He's gay," Draco informed the young woman beside him, calmly, before he turned his full attention back to Harry. "_Extremely,_ extremely gay, and you're wasting your time."

Harry's cheeks sucked in, fast and hard, his eyes shooting away from Draco and to the young woman.

The blonde tossed a nervous hand through her long, curly hair. She looked at him, confused, "You're... gay?"

Okay, he had two options. Deny or confirm Judas Cliffdale's sexual orientation. He looked at Draco, coldly, and he answered the girl, "Sure. I'm gay."

"You're _gay_?" She shrieked, loudly, as if she thought she hadn't heard correctly, collecting more attention from others.

Draco looked away from Harry, without blinking. Okay, good, at least the son of a bitch had a direction, now, and one that was, at least, somewhat true. Judas Cliffdale, that Draco had known, was bisexual. At least he hadn't gone off and denied it for his own sake. But, still, he was lounged out, with his hood down, his face incredibly hard. The expression had not wavered for one single second since he had set his eyes on Draco. But, Draco had a Potter to be protecting, though he didn't want to be. He had made a wordless pact with him—therefore, things were going to have to change. Still buzzed, Draco's attention was now straight on the young lady sitting beside Harry, annoyed, "Are you done throwing yourself at him? I'd like to sit down."

Harry's eyes only lurked in the darkest corner of the pub, "Don't move, don't give him your seat."

Draco seethed at the girl, rather than Harry, and his hand dove into his pocket, "Ten galleons for your seat."

Needless to say, the stool was immediately unoccupied, and Draco paid up, "I swear—"

"You swear," Harry interrupted him, coming out of his own silence. "Get out of my face, Draco."

"I would if I could, and if you had it your way, you'd think I'd rather be in your crotch. Shut up for a minute."

Harry did silence himself, swiveling around on his barstool. Though what had happened in the Three Broomsticks outraged him, it had also cleared a small bit of tension that had been lingering since Draco found out who he was. It wasn't possible for them to forget the extremity of their past, together. Regardless of how they had grown to respect each other, they also had never had to live or deal or talk to each other. They dueled back and forth and shot insults at each other. Becoming friends wasn't possible while there were still questions lingering about who they _actually_ were to each other, and who they had been to each other. He had been trying to overcome the fact that Draco's opinion had always been that pureblood was the sole base of magic and anything that tainted it should have been axed off. But, that couldn't be ignored, seeing as how, basically, the whole entire situation was based around that one damn, elitist belief.

Draco eventually sat beside him, both of them silently facing the awe-struck face of the bartender. Remembering where he was, and why, Draco cleared his throat, "Give me your strongest Butterbeer, would you?" And, he wasn't carded. Everyone in the news was aware when the Minister's children's birthdays were occurring. For some reason this enthralled many people. To Draco, it was stupid and pointless, but at the end of the day, he knew there would be presents waiting on his front porch from random admirers. It wasn't so bad.

When the bartender turned to get his drink, Draco finally glanced to his left, "They didn't know."

Harry, with only one-forth of a glass left of the strongest Butterbeer in the world, sighed of destruction, "Who, what?"

"Cornwell and my mother, they didn't know."

Harry couldn't help but glance back at him. Though, Draco quickly looked away, as if electrocuted, "Didn't know what?"

"Oh, don't make me say if, fuck-face," Draco bit, loudly, but was then given a hard punch on his arm by Harry.

But, somehow, Harry was laughing, then, sighing with defeat, "Drop it, we don't need to talk about it, anymore—"

"No," Draco quickly interrupted him, turning his entire upper body to Harry. They were close. Draco had moved his stool over before he had taken a seat on it. Why had he done this? Because he knew what they were going to end up saying too each other was more personal. The quieter the words, the better. Even if Harry had nothing to say, Draco did. He had a lot to get off of his chest. If anyone else had ever said to him what Harry had said to him, Draco would have thrown down with his wand and his hands. It would have been on. But, this was different, and he wasn't sure, fully, yet, why. "No, I'm not done."

Harry blinked, and then, he looked down into the last contents of his clear mug. He deserved it, "Okay, give it to me."

"No, I'm not going to do that, either," Draco returned, staring at the unfamiliar profile. "I don't know why I like you so much." And, Harry quickly found his eyes, looking bewildered. Draco gave him the same look, back. Well, he wasn't going to lie—especially not while he didn't feel the need to, his alcohol having been greatly loosening him. Annoyed with Harry's expression, Draco grimaced and scowled. "I do, and had you been anyone else twenty minutes ago, after saying what you said, you never would have seen the light of day, again—but, you're you. I'm me. Whatever the hell happened to us in the past, or however in the hell we got here... to this _exact_ moment... there was a reason. Just like I don't know what that reason is, I don't know why in the hell I find you almost impossible to hate—and maybe it's because I've spent most of my last seven years hating you, and I've been drained of the energy for it. Here's the thing, and I'm not going to call myself pathetic for admitting this to you, because it's the last thing I have ever imaged myself saying to you, but—"

Harry was following his eyes, morosely, "Just say it."

Draco took a huge, deep breath, and bravely hissed, "What you said, it hurt."

Harry was sitting up straight, his arms extended on the bar. He didn't know what to say.

By this point, Draco wasn't even looking at him. He could only imagine the ever dumb-founded look, "But, I'm going to excuse you for what you said, because you were ignorant to the facts of the situation and what happened. I have to, however, tell you some of what DID happen, because I'm so mad at you that I need you to understand that I am not, _not_, a product of..." He didn't want to mention his mother by name, or even by _mother_, because anyone could have heard as a passer-on. He, also, didn't want to mention Cornwell, because mostly everyone from the old-school generation knew the story with the Black family and their banishment of Cornwell. He didn't bother looking at Harry. This was hard enough as was. He had never told this to anyone. "I don't take it you never heard the story of what happened to him—I mean, why you were so surprised when you heard his last name, yet had never heard his first?"

Harry turned into Draco and looked between their shoulders, "Wait, come on, the table in the corner is empty."

The bartender had just placed Draco's Butterbeer down, and Draco was already five gulps in.

Harry slipped off of his barstool, first, and heard the clunk of Draco's shoes meeting the wooden floor behind him. When Harry had first walked in, the pub had turned silent in a matter of twenty seconds. It was because he was Judas Cliffdale. When Draco had walked in, it had taken less than ten seconds. The two of them, together, at the bar, had produced the last five minutes of a very quiet pub and very thunderously suspicious, gossiping whispers. Naturally, as soon as Draco had walked in, Harry had looked around for a table—the one in the corner having been, coincidentally, open. The corner was dark, very dark, and this was a good thing.

A few seconds later, Harry slipped down onto the dark, wooden, and black, velvet-cushioned booth-seat built against the wall, and Draco slipped in the seat opposite of him. They were sitting in front of a window, though it was incredibly dirty and almost impossible to see through. He watched, silently, as the bright guide of Draco's hair was blanketed by the hook of his cloak. At this, the black darkness covered Draco's usually luminescent face in dark shadow. Harry covered his own head with his black hood and leaned forward to imitate Draco's form, until their elbows, on the table, were about three inches apart, their noses six or seven, "He wasn't even on Sirius's family tree."

And, Draco dived in, "Cornwell's mother was a muggle—one night stand with his father turned into two, and then months after that. His father refused to acknowledge him for the majority of his young life, or so he was led to believe.," Draco immediately answered back, not surprised by this having been Harry's first attempt at answers. "My mother and Sirius were cousins, you know that—I assume you know most of the bloodlines. But, Cornwell was the cousin no one knew about. His father, after having a terrible incident with his first love being murdered, rebelled against magic, swore it off. He moved to muggle London and met Cornwell's mother. Cornwell used to tell me that it was love at first sight between his parents. They boned, spent a few marvelous months together, and he was about to ask her to marry him, not having yet told her about him being magic, of course not—and that's when his father, my great grandfather, if you will, stepped in, along with the most powerful members of the Black family, and pulled his father back into magic—basically brainwashed him, threatened Cornwell's mother, set her up to look like she was stealing things from his father, and all of this horrible bullshit—so, Cornwell's father, eventually, was so blinded by what his family had done, that he left her—went back into magic, not knowing, of course, that Cornwell had been conceived."

Draco spoke very, very quietly. He had been told this story only twice in his life. Cornwell didn't talk about his own family very much. He had never, of course, understood the extremity until he was old enough to appreciate what Cornwell had been through. One of the only fond things that Cornwell had ever spoken about Lucius, to Draco, was that he had a wonderful family that Draco was going to be blessed enough to be part of.

Indeed, most of Draco's immediate family, as a Malfoy, was the same family that had thrown Cornwell's life into disarray. They would never, EVER, know that Draco was Cornwell's son and not Lucius's, not only because his mother and birth-father were distantly, er, related, but because Cornwell's reputation had been stabbed at every instant it could have been by that very family.

"Cornwell grew up as a normal kid in London, good manners, polite—same as he is now, I suppose, or so I've been told," he started in, again, continuing on. There was something inside of his body that was shooting off fireworks. He had never told this story to anyone, before. He, for once, was telling the actual family history of his birth father. He had shivers, and it excited his very fingertips and all of his blood.

"When he turned eleven, he got the Hogwarts letter. His mother knew nothing of magic, nor of Cornwell's father's knowledge of magic—and, she had even_ less_ knowledge on the whereabouts of his father, Airchelles, to begin with and had absolutely no way of contacting him. She, like many muggle parents who get the letter, thought it was some sort of prank set forth by Cornwell or some of the neighborhood kids who, coincidentally, didn't like Cornwell because he was a pretty little boy with good manners—anyway, she ignored the letter, until, one day, they were sitting outside on their front-stoop, and the headmaster of Hogwarts, at the time, himself, showed up with the letter. Cornwell had been the only child who had not been confirmed to be attending that year—"

Harry, enthralled and in awe, gazing at Draco, constantly, while he whispered, frowned, "Why was the headmaster—"

"I'm getting there," Draco cut him off, quietly. But, Harry did not look offended. He just closed his mouth, his left eyebrow hooking up in amusement. But, Draco allowed a few seconds to gain more of his breath back and to let the beginning of the story settle. Actually, the only reason he stopped was to take a few more gulps of his warm Butterbeer—hot damn, it was good. He swallowed, groaned, and leaned in to Harry, again, closer.

"The Headmaster was a Black, Cornwell's grandfather's brother. He had been one of the family members to pull Airchelles from Cornwell's mother. He had, though, no idea that Cornwell was a Black. Upon appearing on Cornwell's doorstep, and with one look at Cornwell, he knew. Not only do they say that the Black family has something recognizable about them, in their eyes, like some sort of magnetic affliction—but, he also looked overwhelmingly like his father in the facial shape and jaw—something extremely trademark, if you haven't yet noticed. When he saw Cornwell's mother, it all came back to him. And, appalled with never having known about Cornwell, he was furious. He took Cornwell and his mother under his wing—them not having known that he was who he was in actual relation to their specific situation. He introduced Cornwell to Diagon Alley—to magic."

"Eventually, he confessed who he was in relation to Cornwell. Naturally, Cornwell's mother had finally realized him to be one of the men she had seen around Airchelles those twelve or thirteen years earlier. Furious, for having been lied to by Airchelles and by the Headmaster, and having had to raise Cornwell as a single mother while she learned that Airchelles went on to greatness, leaving her behind and believing her to have been a big mistake in his life, she decided she didn't want to put Cornwell through it. Then, she learned the reasons why Airchelles had been pulled away from her, from Cornwell—the politics—the issues of muggles and purebloods and the controversy not only in the Black family, but in the whole wizard society. After this, she didn't want to put Cornwell through the experience of being a known mud-blood, bastard son of one of the most powerful men in the ministry, at the time."

Draco took a deep breath, "While she and Cornwell had been oblivious to who the Headmaster was, he had been explaining everything: the politics, the families, the school, the locations—_everything_. She refused Cornwell's magic—and, though they say that most muggle parents who deny their half-blood children's magic actual refuse their children in a psychological way down the line—Cornwell says he never felt anything but love and compassion for his mother. Even as an eleven year old, somehow, he understood. And, as the years went on—twelve to thirteen, thirteen to fourteen, fourteen to fifteen—"

Harry was gape-mouthed, "You mean he never went to Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded, "Up until his sixteenth birthday, Cornwell barely gave a blink to Hogwarts or his blood-line. He was magic, and, can you imagine being magic and, not only not knowing how to use it, but not even giving a damn that you had it in you?" Draco asked. He had always been in awe of the person that Cornwell had been. He had heard many stories from different people in his family about Cornwell, though they were usually all extremely flawed. But, Cornwell had always answered the questions when Draco had asked him for information. There had always been one thing that Draco couldn't comprehend—and that was Cornwell's knowledge of being a wizard and never even caring.

"Cornwell is such a trip, though, Malfoy, I don't have any trouble believing he was unaffected by what he was."

Draco, at being called Malfoy, felt slightly slapped. Here he was talking about his family—the _Blacks_. And, Harry had called him by _Malfoy_. And, for the first time in his entire life, he didn't FEEL like a Malfoy—he didn't even acknowledge the word Malfoy, at first, for what it was. Malfoy. It was, almost, like just a word. But, guilt crept over him at this sudden epiphany in the moment. Denying Malfoy was denying Lucius, and Lucius, though evil and corrupt to most people, was his father—a loving, nurturing, proud man who had raised Draco with laughter and kindness. And, Draco thought he was a pretty great guy. He had been raised, very well, by three very different, yet loving, parents. He cleared his throat, "Yeah," he continued, ignoring his guilt. "On his sixteenth birthday, he was standing in his kitchen with a friend he'd met years earlier at a park in London. A knock comes on the door—and, he answers it."

Harry, after about five seconds, took Draco's Butterbeer from him, laughing under his breath, "Come on, tell the story!"

Draco let Harry take the now-empty glass. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the stuffy air of the pub into his lungs. Somehow, even with the thick air, it felt fresh. He felt fresh. He felt liberated. And, it wasn't because of the alcohol—okay, well, _maybe_ just a little but. But, Draco knew that this freedom-fighting inside of him was mostly produced by the story he was telling to Harry Potter about his birth-father's past—a father that Harry Potter was, in some ways, related to—but not by blood. They both had ties to the Black family, and both of their ties had existed in father-figures.

"Cornwell opens the door, and a man is standing there. Cornwell says he had no idea who the man was, at first. But, he always added that he must have been so brain-dead that morning, because it had been like he hadn't been able to identify himself in a mirror." This received Harry whispering, "Airchelles!" to Draco, who nodded in agreement without sarcasm about the obviousness of who had shown up at the door. "He's standing there, just waiting for this man to say something, or do something."

"Cornwell's mother was a work, so she wasn't home. It was just Cornwell and his friend. His father just stares at him, completely silent, and holds out a letter—it's a Hogwarts letter. See, Cornwell's uncle, the Headmaster, had been extremely wounded that Cornwell hadn't attended Hogwarts. He had tried to get the rest of his family to welcome Cornwell in—by the way, none of them ever knew Cornwell by name. They only knew him as a bastard son with dirty blood—anyway, they had refused for Airchelles to find out that he even had a son. And, Cornwell's great uncle had been sworn, by a bonding-charm, not to say a word."

"Well, he was on his deathbed around the time of Cornwell's sixteenth birthday. Cornwell, who eventually went to see his great uncle on his death bed, told me that it was the man's heart that had broken. He hadn't been able to take lying, anymore, so he had summoned Airchelles—his nephew, late one night, to his home—and told him not to tell not a soul, and to come alone. He had given Airchelles a letter to deliver to Cornwell—not, however, telling him that Cornwell was his son. He had sworn to his family that he would not have been the one to tell Cornwell, but they had never said Airchelles couldn't find out on his own."

"While Cornwell didn't recognize the similar features in the man, his father knew that Cornwell was his son from the second that Cornwell had opened the door," Draco continued, quietly. "Airchelles had never been a typical Black. He worked well within the ministry for equality. He had no resentments toward muggles, obviously, after having fallen in love with Cornwell's mother. He pretended in front of his family, for a long time, that the whole incident had turned him against muggles, completely, which had been exactly what they had wanted to hear."

Draco knew he was beginning to travel off course, so he redirected the story, "Anyway, knowing, immediately, about Cornwell, and figuring that his uncle had been struggling with this knowledge for a very long time—oh, apparently, there had been moments when Airchelles had sensed that something was not right in moments when his uncle was in the room while his other nieces and nephews mentioned their children—anyway, his father basically figured everything out in about five seconds. He gave Cornwell the letter, asked him where his mother was, and if he could speak to her—at which point Cornwell had looked at the letter, noted that it was from Hogwarts, and returned it back to his father, still unknowingly. He told him that he wasn't interested in being part of a world that had destroyed his mother, nor acknowledging the part of his blood that had come from a terrible man, his father, who had come from a terrible family—and closed the door on him."

Even Harry was rubbing his face, in distress, "I couldn't even imagine."

Draco agreed with this very quiet, crackled sentiment, "Airchelles left, stunned and broken. His uncle, having been the only Black struggling with having been keeping the truth from him, was getting weaker. Being who he was, Airchelles had his own pull in the family. He was, basically, the powerhouse voice of the family—always logical, very intelligent. That very night, after Cornwell had closed the door in his face, he rushed back to his uncle and tried his damnedest not to beg for the truth, because he knew it would possibly kill his uncle to break the bond—but, his uncle was already dying, and he hadn't more than about five days to live. He had become very sick, and upon Airchelles' arrival in the uncle's home, his uncle took his hands and stared into his eyes, and told him the truth—all of it, said he didn't care if he died—and, it all came out, about the entire family keeping Cornwell from him—only his uncle still having known Cornwell by name—about the setups, about everything—about how they destroyed everything that his father had ever loved before his family had pulled him back in with all lies and deceit."

Harry was grimacing, his teeth clenched together, his upper lip lifted in disgrace.

"Quickly after, Airchelles called a meeting of the family—and not just the decision-makers, but his brothers, sisters, parents, grand-parents, uncles and aunts, and even distant cousins. He called everyone together, without ever having had to think about what he was giving up. And, he stood in front of them and slashed his entire existence off of the family tree, tore off his Black family crest, threw over all of his Deeds and Trusts in the Black name, and told them all to fuck themselves, basically. His brothers and sisters had no idea what had happened—they didn't know about Cornwell, either. He told the entire, clueless family, then, what had happened. It caused a split in the family. And, to this day, there are four missing Black family members on the last generation's family tree, including Airchelles, his great uncle, and two of Airchelles' siblings."

"Holy shit," Harry hissed, shell-shocked. How incredible! All of the letters of the alphabet had escaped him!

Draco nodded at him, even shivering at the secrets of the Blacks, "Yeah."

Harry, now impatient with Draco's pause, though he had been talking non-stop for five minutes, his eyes always flashing, in the now-adjusted dark, with excitement about even telling this history, growled and lifted his shocked-palms off of the wooden table between them. He had been staring into Draco Malfoy's eyes for the last fifteen minutes, non-stop.

This wasn't the same person. He was not the Draco Malfoy that Harry had ever known. This was a completely different human being—one with stories to tell, one with Black blood, one with silver eyes that had nothing to do with the Malfoy genes, but everything to do with the genes of his mother. He was someone else! He just was! Harry never had any IDEA about any of these things, but this was Draco's life.

Nothing, from that moment on, was going to be gray between them. It was going to be white—or _Black!_ He understood, now, how dense he had been being, for years, to think that a person could only have a few facets that were only visible from the outside. He knew better. He should have listened to his instincts, all of those years, when he looked at Malfoy and saw something other than... _Malfoy_. No! It was too deep! Too confusing! Too... "What happened, then? How did Airchelles tell him? I can't believe it—I mean, just... come on, tell me."

Draco laughed, hardly at all, his shoulders slouching with ease. This was the best story he had ever, ever told. And, to make it even better, it was true! All truth! All truth! There was still more to be told, lots more, "I just want to stress the importance of the split in the family—it was Airchelles, Airchelles uncle's family, and... Airchelles had more siblings than you've been told—he had another brother and sister, who, after the news of what the family had done to Cornwell, though no one was pleased, decided to take arms with their brother—both of whom, like Airchelles, were not completely dedicated to the politics of the Black family, especially because, at that time, Voldemort had taken in most all of the upper society hook, line and sinker, including their parents, other siblings, friends, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—you name it. They wanted to get away from that. His brother's entire family, as well as his sister, who hadn't yet started her family, were taken off of the tree—off of the record."

"So, basically, there is a whole _other_ side of the Black family. But, most people don't know what happened in the family—it's all glamour, dark arts and strong family bonds. But, the Black family members, from the main-pack, were the ones to make it that way. They never publicly, or even socially, acknowledged the missing Blacks, and to their children, never mentioned the missing Blacks until they became nothing more than a dirty little secret, having just sort of faded away. It was never, ever, really discussed. Even now, no one really knows, not even my cousins, because the older generations want it to be forgotten. Black isn't the most uncommon last name, either, so those who hear of, say, my cousin Sherman Black of Hufflepuff, Cornwell's brother's son, don't think he is related to the _House of Black_, though he is."

"Cornwell has siblings?" Harry immediately asked, and then grinned. "Cornwell's mother and father got together?"

Draco grinned right back, "Yeah," he confirmed, and it felt good to do so, "I'll get to that, now. Cornwell's father, after the gathering he had called of the Blacks, left that night. He took his most important possessions with him, traded in a good chunk of his galleons and coins, at Gringotts, for muggle currency, and he went back to muggle London. He got himself a hotel room for his things. He stayed that night, but the very next morning, he was back on Cornwell's doorstep. Cornwell's friend had stayed the night that night. He had never asked about what Hogwarts was, or what Cornwell had even been talking about with the man, having been right behind Cornwell the whole time. So, when the morning rolled around, not only was his friend there, but his mother was, too. Cornwell recalls it all, perfectly."

"It was an early Saturday morning, and he and his friend were making breakfast for themselves." Now with a full glass of Butterbeer, again, that Harry had signaled to the bartender for, Draco took a sip rather than a gulp. Harry, however, was slugging it down, his brown eyes glazed over and bright under his dark, long eye-lashes and dark hood. He swallowed his own sip, both of them still leaned in over the table. "A knock comes on the door. This time, figuring its the morning paper, Cornwell tells his friend to grab to door. He's standing in the kitchen two minutes later, scrambling eggs, in his pajama bottoms, a right mess, having been up all night the night before explaining the mechanics of his family history to his friend—minus the magic part. Well, he hears his friend walk in the kitchen behind him, so he asks who was at the door. His friend tells him... _his father_. So, naturally, Cornwell turns hysterical with laughter, calls him a gigantic arsehole, stops laughing and turns around from the stove—and, there, standing, is his father, holding a tiny pocket-watch that doubled as a mirror in front of his face, so Cornwell sees himself. And, then, Airchelles lowers the mirror a few seconds later, though Cornwell says it felt more like minutes. And, he's hit with it. Cornwell proceeds to do something that the Blacks are known for."

Harry snorted with loosened, bitter laughter, "Murder family members?"

"No!" Draco laughed, too, at this. It was the truth—a twisted truth, but the truth none-the-less. "He laughed."

And, Harry squinted at him. He appeared to be half-smiling, but it seemed that he didn't know if something could be as fathomable, in Cornwell's situation, as laughter. But, Draco had always imagined his father laughing, standing in his old, tiny kitchen, holding a spatula, bare-chested, burning his eggs, too emotionally broken to do anything other than laugh, as if it hadn't been true.

"Yeah, he laughed. He turned back around, turned off his eggs, and then faced his father, again, not having yet... really understood what was going on. He had just been thinking it was a man from Hogwarts who was back to pester him. It was only when he turned around for that second time, and his friend had called his father by the name Airchelles, before he quickly left the room, without looking at Cornwell, that he realized that the face staring back at his was all too familiar. They stared at each other—and both told me it felt more like days than minutes. The first thing that was ever said between them was my grandfather asking for his face back." They both laughed, wildly. "But, around lunch time, they were sitting at the kitchen table with his friend. And, Cornwell has always made it his distinct pleasure by telling me that one of the last things his father said to him that day was about his friend, about that _Potter_ boy, what a nice fellow he truly was, a worthy friend with an honest heart."

Harry went to open his mouth, as if to apologize, but then tore his hood from the top of his head, "Potter boy?" WHAT?

Draco reached across the table and tugged the hood back over the top of Harry's head, amused, "Yes, James Potter."

Harry's mouth was subtly gaping. He didn't know what to do with himself. The last thing in the world he had been expecting was for anything about HIS family to be brought up, much less his father. But, that was when they were sixteen? Wasn't his father best friends with Sirius, then? How come Sirius had never mentioned Cornwell when mentioning James's friends? How come Cornwell's name had NEVER come up? That was an important tidbit that no one HAD TOLD HIM! How horrible! How...! His father had been best friends with Draco's father? Even three months ago, that sort of statement would have made nuns laugh.

But, no. No, James and Cornwell had met in a park, and they had stayed friends? That meant that Cornwell's birthday must have been in the summer, when James had been home on vacation from Hogwarts. How did coincidences like that happen, anyway? How, after knowing all of that, had he and Draco become enemies? Of course, Harry hadn't known that information, only Draco had. But, wait! WAIT. Their fathers had been close friends, yet Harry had, basically, cursed off Draco Malfoy's existence since the very first time they had met. Oh, no. Oh, no. His stomach was boiling with anxiety and guilt. He was shocked. He was _just_... stunned, confused, and even, frustratingly enough, a little _angry_.

What Draco had told him, Harry had never even considered being anything other than very fallible. Had his father known that Cornwell was a wizard when they had met? Had he been sent to meet him, purposely? Had—"God, damn, I can't believe no one fucking thought to tell me this—fuck them all—god-damn, I swear—I can't... I can't... _Unbelievable_! No fucking wonder you hated me so much without reason. I cursed you the first day I met you—_nearly_... _fuck_."

Draco laughed, very quietly, staring down at half-full glass with interest. A very eloquent statement, Potter. He ignored Harry's words, because they seemed to be addressed to himself rather than Draco, "Cornwell was furious at James, though."

Harry scrunched his nose up and blurted, "I can't say I'd blame him. I'd want to know if he were a true friend."

"He was," Draco quickly responded, watching Harry's expressions. He was unreadable. There were things that Draco could read on Harry's real face. But, this was Judas Cliffdale's face, where he could read even less. He wasn't in an upset mood. He was just stunned, now, his hands rubbing his jaws, both of his elbows on the table, staring at Draco as if he was expecting it to be a lie, though he knew it wasn't. But, Draco didn't mind.

Draco had had the pleasure of visiting the day Cornwell had met Airchelles, in Cornwell's Pensieve. He had decided, that day, three years ago, that no Potter was _bad_. He had decided that James Potter seemed like an okay-guy. There had been a very dreary day where Draco was spewing over breakfast about how much he hated Harry, how much he hated everything to do with Harry Potter, though Lucius and his mother had cheered him on, laughing as though the hate was innocent. But, Cornwell hadn't seen it that way. He had shown Draco moments between himself and James, like the night James had spent over before the morning Airchelles had shown up. And, Draco had never, ever had a friend like James Potter was a friend to Cornwell Black, and he had never been a friend like Cornwell, either.

"Cornwell had questioned it. They met in a muggle park, both with their mums, when they were little boys, and neither knew the other was magic, nor did their mothers. Cornwell was so upset with James that James urged to be given Veritaserum to prove he hadn't known. He wasn't lying. He had never even told his school friends about Cornwell, including Sirius and Lupin. Every summer that James came home, he and Cornwell were together nearly every day—eventually, Sirius got suspicious, followed James one day when he was staying with the Potters on holiday, and... well, Black met Black, but Sirius didn't find out during that summer that he and Cornwell were related. James ended up telling him two summers later, though." He paused.

It was incredibly silent, and he and Harry were just staring at each other, as if incredibly alarmed by what was being said. Draco had never told this to anyone. Saying it out loud made him realize just how startling it must have been for Harry to be hearing. "But, the best thing about Sirius, as Cornwell always told me, was that, even when he was spending the summers with the Potters, there would be days when James would say he had to go somewhere, alone, and... knowingly, Sirius always just let him go, without saying a word, like he knew there was someone else out there that James, leading up to that summer before he found out about Cornwell, was with. And, then, after he found out about Cornwell, it was the same thing. Later on, of course, Cornwell told me that Sirius had always felt that James had a split personality when it came to the muggle and magic worlds, and that was what slated and imbedded James Potter as _cool_, eventually, to both of them, because not only was he pure-blooded, but he was completely enthralled into the muggle world, too, as if he owned it and was part of it, though he hardly was. He was a very different person to Cornwell than he was to Sirius, and vice versa."

Harry swallowed the last of his Butterbeer, in silence, and placed his glass down just as silently, "Your birth."

"Yeah, you look like you're having a little trouble digesting."

Harry blinked at him, but then gave a sheepish. blank, yet knowingly amused, smile, "A lot of trouble, actually."

Draco didn't push the subject, but rather continued with the whole entire point of why he had started reciting the history of the Black-family side of his blood, of his birth father's side, "Cornwell ended up going to Hogwarts for his sixth and seventh years. Unfortunately, he was sorted into Slytherin, to the displeasure, yet complete logic to one James Potter. Just, I want to add one more thing about James Potter," he quickly whispered, leaning even closer. Harry was blinking so idly, almost as if he were a little baby animal innocent to the world, his brown eyes so open and inviting. "I said there were two James Potters. The James Potter who was James Potter to my father, his loyal best friend who he spent every summer with, and there was the James Potter, cockiest institution at Hogwarts—that was, of course, up until the first day of his sixth year, in which his Muggle and Wizard worlds collided with Cornwell at school with him. Thus, creating the perfectly balanced James Potter that the world has heard so much about, who lost his arrogance and cockiness upon the arrival of Cornwell."

"Sirius was his sense of adventure and risk, but when Cornwell was there, even though he was a Slytherin, James stayed very true, and vice versa. Cornwell was his sense of... sensitivity, sensibility. They even ate many meals a week together those last two years—can you imagine? A Gryffindor, especially one like James Potter, eating at the Slytherin table?" And, Harry was smiling so much, looking down at the table, almost as if trying to hide his delight, that even Draco's cheeks started to hurt., though he was only smiling a tiny bit. "_What_?"

Harry clasped his hands over Draco's, very suddenly, his hands possessive and curious. He couldn't help it. It had just happened. Their hands had been right there the whole entire time. He would have been lying if he said he wasn't interested in at least showing Draco some sort of affection for just blurting out a truth about Harry's own father, James, that Harry had never heard about. He was grateful, though still a bit loopy from the story. He had been a little choked up—not that he would ever admit it, "If I get sorted into Gryffindor, will you let me come eat lunch with you?"

Draco smiled at him, nodding, biting over his bottom lip with his top teeth. Harry's hands were extremely large and extremely warm. Soft, too, and surprisingly dry. But, it was a nice contact between them. A contrast, as well, with Draco's very white, pale skin and Harry's tan tone. They weren't holding hands, of course. But, it was a good sign that Harry had been the one to show the affection.

It wasn't Draco that was going to hold them back as trying to be friends or, at least, people who treated each other with decency. It would be Harry. But, no, they were both grinning, now, searching each other's faces very suspiciously, out of no where. It was a cute moment, Draco decided, before he shrugged his shoulders up about an inch and leaned in an inch closer, as if to tell Harry the biggest secret yet, "I'd even let you'd eat lunch with me if you were in _Hufflepuff_, ssshhh!"

Harry snorted with laughter, but it came out very childish and full of brightened spirit, "Hahaha, Malfoy! _Hufflepuff_!"

Draco grinned, "Did you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"

Harry nodded, but he didn't move his hands, "Yeah, but can I ask you something first?"

"Er," Draco first murmured, nervously, but then shrugged, What the hell, he had nothing to hide, now. "Sure, go ahead."

Harry squeezed Draco's hands, lightly, with his own, entranced, suddenly, "Are your hands extremely cold or are mine just REALLY hot?"

They started at each other for a long moment, before Draco looked down, curious. He hadn't noticed it, but Harry was right. Against his hands, his stimulation was extremely hot. To Harry's hands, the grasp was extremely cold. But, Draco wasn't sure how to answer Harry, because he wasn't sure, himself, who was hot and who was cold, or if it was abnormal. But, well, Harry's hands, now that he concentrated on them, were extremely, extremely warm over his own. It felt nice, almost like a bonded protection between them. They were about the same size, too, it seemed, their hands. He looked up, drunk, blitzed and happy, "I think yours are just hot, and mine are just cold."

"Oh, okay," Harry answered, agreeing as if the answer were scientific fact. "On with it. Your conception."

Draco couldn't help but laugh. Harry was definitely more than buzzed, now, his voice smaller and meeker, "Right," he continued on, not wanting to, yet, start making fun of Harry. That would, of course, wait until Harry was falling all over everything. Draco would freeze frames of the clumsiness with his wand and show them to Harry the next morning, just for kicks. Oh, no, that was evil. No, no, it wasn't evil. It was perfect. He laughed even harder as Harry rested his cheek down on the pile of their hands, though it was only his own skin he was resting on. But, he pulled his head up, and he was grinning with shiny, perfect teeth. Draco looked at them. "I do have to admit something to you before this goes any further."

Harry looked him over with his eyes, sweeping animatedly, "Tell me, Malfoy, tell me. Tell me, and then tell me."

"Yeah, you can handle your liquor_ really_ well," Draco teased, very quietly. But, Harry didn't respond, just resorted to kicking him, very lightly, under the table, on his shin. It didn't hurt. It felt more pleased and satisfied, if anything. A kick in the shin, though it was soft and sloppy. He knew Harry was waiting for the rest of the story about how Draco's parents became to be Draco's parents. He surged his face forward about another inch, and the tip of his nose nudged the tip of Harry's. But, Harry was smirking, so Draco pouted, not being able to be smug. Damnit. "Judas Cliffdale, you're really, really sexy, and if I were really, really drunk, I'd snog you."

Harry moaned with loud chuckles, his head hitting the wooden table, "I am not surprised. I am pretty sexy. Smoldering."

Draco ignored him, pointedly, "Cornwell's mother slept in late that morning, because it was her day off. She only came down the stairs at about one in the afternoon—which had given Cornwell and his father six or seven hours to have been talking. Cornwell tells the story so much better than I do, and I can't do it justice. But, he told me one that one of the best moments he ever had in his life was when his mom walked into the kitchen, in her sweats, her hair a mess, with no makeup on and saw Cornwell's father. He said she was so white that the color of their old kitchen walls—white—were so jealous that they turned blue with envy." Harry howled with drunk, nearly adorable—not quite, no, not quite adorable—laughter. Amused at Harry's change in demeanor, as the minutes were wearing by, Draco couldn't help but voice a laugh, strangely, directed right at Harry. But, Harry didn't care. "Well, basically, Cornwell's father had everything to apologize for. But, Cornwell says that as soon as she got a hold of herself, it was like she had suddenly been given a momentary moment of magic, because she had been so overcome that she couldn't even find resentments toward him—of course, she then had to sit down and be fanned with paper-towels, but..."

"They fell in love, again? How many siblings does Cornwell have? How many cousins do you have?"

"Yeah, they fell in love, again. They were only thirty-two, thirty-three. He has four other siblings. And, a lot of cousins."

"Do they know about you? I mean, that you're Cornwell's son?" Harry asked, worriedly, deeply, completely open.

But, at this question, Draco's eyes fell to their hands, again, and he forced a laugh, "Are you kidding? No. No one does."

"I do," Harry urged, quickly, and sporadically lifted up their hands a few inches above the table. "You have a James Potter!"

Draco coughed, his eyelashes fluttering in surprise. That was not expected, "No, I—"

"No," Harry assured, easily, right back to him, "I am your James Potter, and you are my Cornwell Black,"

Draco couldn't help but grin, once more, laughing, "As long as you don't go off and get yourself murdered, okay."

In any normal situation, and if he hadn't been blitzed, Harry would have taken a bit of pain from the comment. Every time someone had mentioned him, in the context of his father's death, a huge stab of guilt swallowed his body. He tried to ignore it, most of the time, and tried to make up for it by making it his mission to make sure his parents' deaths weren't in vain. It wasn't though he didn't genuinely feel he had to avenge their deaths, but, sometimes, the weight of their world, literally, hurt his shoulders, and he was ready to collapse and crack, especially after the previous year and all of the betrayals and deaths he had foregone and seen. He sighed, lifting his right hand up from between them. He placed his palm on Draco's forehead, and, for some reason, had the urge to push it back. So, he pushed Draco back a couple of inches, but Draco said nothing, as if he wasn't even bothered, "I am about one Butterbeer away from doing and saying many things I shouldn't. I think it'd be best if we get out of here before the late-night crowd shows up. Nasty bunch, really."

Draco clasped his hand around Harry's wrist and pushed it down. It fell, "You've been in here, before?

"Yeah," Harry murmured, but didn't extend a better explanation. He held up his empty mug. "One more for the road?"

Draco smirked at him, doubtfully, "I think you've had about enough. You just said so."

Harry fixed his eyes, suspiciously, onto the pulled-together, proper posture of the person opposite him, "Hi."

"_Annnd_, that would be our cue to get you out of here," Draco murmured, under his breath. Now, unlike Harry, Draco did have a bit more experience, obviously, with alcohol. He handled it better—not, of course, to say he wasn't drunk. He was. He just wasn't as drunk as the blatantly glazed-eyed boy looking back at him. He had never pictured himself being more capable of alcoholic soberness than Harry, who was—wait a second! He squinted back at Harry, leaning forward. "You're really quiet when you're drunk."

"No," Harry responded, weakly. He blinked in a very drowsy, miserable sort of way. "I'm just depressed when I'm drunk."

"Even when you're drunk, you're still a somber, sorry, moping mess. What a horrible trait," Draco sympathized without trying to be sarcastic or vindictive. But, Harry didn't curse him off or try to come back with anything. The only thing he did was meet Draco's eyes with a very sad, almost knowing, frown. Awe, Potter, stop it. Feeling his own body fill with something that resembled pity, Draco sighed. He slid out from his seat, suddenly, and stood up. A rush of blood flushed over him, and he felt like he was walking on air. He walked the couple of feet to Harry. "You can get up, can't you?"

"I'm not that amateur with my alcohol, Malfoy," Harry quickly threw at him, but then fell silent. "You're being nice."

"Tell anyone and I'll hex your face," Draco lightly quipped right back, with a friendly smile. It wasn't like it had to be forced. He was just kidding. And, when Harry looked up at him, he was laughing with an odd expression etched onto his face. Harry had been laughing a lot, and that was nice. But, Draco couldn't help but miss the old face of Harry Potter. This was someone else, and, this someone else wasn't the full Harry Potter. His personality was a little different. It was like Harry didn't even know who he was supposed to be, anymore, "Need help?"

Harry heavily rose to his feet and only answered when he had, with a cynical laugh, "Not yet."

"You know," Draco observed, when they were on the street a few minutes later, walking very closely and slowly. Harry looked incredibly distressed, like he had been having a hard time even existing. He would stop, squint, and then walk. Then, he would stop again, mutter something under his breath, and begin to walk, again. It was then, when Harry was walking incredibly well, that Draco realized it was Judas Cliffdale's body that had a very high intolerance to alcohol, which was not surprising. It was Harry, himself, his soul, who had been sort of drunk. Yet, his body didn't seem to be. In fact, when he strolled, there beside Draco, it was almost sickening how much Draco had knowingly watched him slug down and how little of an effect it seemed to have on him.

Harry turned to him, to his right, his arms folded over his chest, "No, I don't. What should I know?"

Draco grinned a little, "I was just about to say that your wittiness had left the building. I was wrong."

Harry came to an abrupt stop, just to check his own reflexes. He knew, now, that he wasn't drunk, and it was boggling his mind. In his old body, Harry could down about two LIGHT Butterbeers and be tumbling over things. But, in Judas's body, multiple mugs of the strongest Butterbeer on the market had barely affected him. It was a strange, strange sensation, because, for many different reasons, Harry WANTED to be drunk. He wanted to escape, just for one night. He wanted to be fuck-faced around Draco Malfoy. But, no, not even that could work out. He couldn't get drunk. How ridiculous. He growled, loudly, and tugged his hood down, harder, over his head. He turned into Draco, once more, as they began to walk, again, "My vision is twenty-twenty, I feel like I could probably balance on a rope five feet in the air, my mind is completely clear, and I have absolutely no urge to throw myself on you and take advantage of you out of intoxication—not that I would, anyway, but you get my point."

Draco sighed, "I'm glad you said something, because I've been trying to restrain myself."

Harry laughed, quietly, and glanced at him, "You mean about me jumping your bones or my lack of drunk idiocy?"

"Ha-ha," dryly escaped Draco's lips. "Drunk idiocy, and had you jumped my bones, I would have pounded your head in."

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned his full attention onto Draco, wrapping his arms over his chest, once more. Draco turned around to him, with his hands out at his sides as if to ask what they were doing, stopping. But, Harry licked against his dry lower lip. It was a weird sensation, still, because the lips he licked were fuller than the ones he had been wetting his entire life, "Come on, Malfoy, just own up to it."

Draco scoffed, "Own up to _what_?"

"You would _not_ have pounded my head in would I have kissed you. Be honest with me, fuck you!" But, Harry couldn't see Draco's face. It was still hovered in the dark shadows. The only thing that Harry could make out was the contour of Draco's nose. He had no distinction on what to expect next. Perhaps a hex? Perhaps a fist in his face? Perhaps a laugh? Perhaps a grin? Perhaps a very distant smirk? No? Nothing? He waited another moment. "You're so flamboyantly flirtatious with me. You're not afraid of the insinuations you make. You clearly have an open mind about sexual orientations, yet, somehow, when I bring up something in the same kind of light, you get all shove-off-ish and tense." Come on, Malfoy! Be a man!

Draco started walking backwards, trying not to under _or_ over react, "Rightfully so."

Harry rolled his eyes, "What kind of explanation is that? Stop walking and just talk to me."

So, Draco stopped. Fine, honesty? "Okay." And, he walked toward Harry. But, because Harry was standing closer to a store, it was easy to see his face. He didn't look panicked or worried. Draco didn't know how to read him, especially at that moment, because he looked so honestly interested in what he was asking about. "I have a reputation of being flirtatious with men and women, alike. You're obviously not used to it, because you so adamantly keep saying that you're not gay, as if I am, as if it makes you uncomfortable, and I don't want to keep making you uncomfortable by bringing it up."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," Harry returned, honestly. "It never did."

Draco sighed, skeptical, and frowned at Harry, standing about a foot away from him, "I simply don't believe you.."

All right, fine. Harry shrugged, "Okay, and I don't believe you're straight. We'll both live, won't we?" And, he smirked, brilliantly, at Draco, pulling off his hood from over his head. He walked around Draco, with amusement. Granted, Harry never really had a reason to be so paranoid about making sure his sexuality was stated perfectly clear. He only did it for one reason, and that reason was Draco Malfoy's assurance that Harry was not-interested.

Personally, Harry had nothing against anyone who was gay or bisexual. He didn't, necessarily, cross off the male gender from his list of contenders. Well, _one_ contender. Though he wasn't attracted to Draco, or any male, on a relationship level, he couldn't deny that Draco was extremely beautiful, and he never had denied it. In fact, it was one of the reasons so many males at Hogwarts despised Draco. He was just too pretty, and the girls fawned all over him. But, Harry had never been resentful toward it. He had always seen right through Draco's flamboyant little act, but he had never been sure what_ exactly_ rested beneath the mask.

Draco spun around, behind Harry, "You stupid, cocky bastard."

Harry grinned as Draco attacked him from behind.

But, it was innocent, because seconds later, Draco was back at his side, walking with him, "I am really not gay."

"I am really not inclined to believe you," Harry returned, imitating Draco's incessant reasoning as fact.

But, Draco didn't argue with him, immediately. He lifted his left arm up, between them, to Harry's shoulder, "You really should keep your hood up," he said, seriously. It had been bothering him. It was very unsafe for either of them to be out, even in clocks and hoods. Without the dark veil that blanketed their heads, darkly, and their faces, they were even more at risk. The two of them, basically, were all alone in the world, yet, somehow, were two of the most powerful young men, It was strange, really, how there was this power that they both held within them, set forth by family ties, family names and legends, yet all of those ties, names and legends were not around them, anymore. They had no loyalty to anyone—except, maybe, to each other. As far as how Harry truly viewed him, Draco wasn't sure.

Harry smiled to himself as Draco tugged his hood up over his head, and withdrew his hand, "I could have done that."

"I was just looking for an excuse to touch you," Draco lightly threw at him, purposely. "Go jack off, now, love."

Harry laughed, animatedly, his eyes on the ground as they walked, his hands in his pockets, "Checkmate, Malfoy."

"Wait, look," Draco suddenly sputtered, under his breath. Up and down the street, there were men and women posting up posters on the bricks and windows of buildings. The poster, however, was what actually caught his attention. He wrapped his left hand around Harry's elbow and tersely pulled him toward the right. There was a huge picture of Harry Potter on these posters. But, Draco immediately stopped when he realized what they were.

And, then he realized something very stressful and horrible when he read over the text. It was Harry Potter's funeral announcement. But, Harry wasn't dead. Harry was... alive, and behind him—but, his body? He glanced over his left shoulder, as Harry shook his elbow free and passed him to get to the closest poster. Hesitantly, Draco followed.

Harry had once informed, him, already, that he had been killed. But, Draco had no idea what that entailed, now. Was his body gone? How had he been transferred into Judas Cliffdale's body? Or had he? Wait, how had Harry died, anyway? And, why was everything so confusing? He knew absolutely nothing about the situation, as he stood there, five feet behind Harry as Harry stood in front of a gigantic poster of himself, his hands placed on either side of the poster on the store window he had been spell-bound to. He wasn't moving.

Awkwardly, Draco's eyes flitted up to the words written over the poster-Harry's head.

_Join in the celebration and remembrance of Harry Potter's life._

Harry's heart had broken open. Seeing this, he couldn't help but inwardly wish he would have been drunk. It was his funeral announcement, and they were being posted all over Hogsmeade by a team of cloaked Ministry officials. His funeral. Oh, no. He was dead. He knew he was dead, but this was... oh, JESUS. He rubbed his left hand over his face, his right hand slamming over his own face on the poster, furious. His funeral! He would never have his body back. It was nearly impossible.

It was all too complicated, and Harry had never learned exactly, how, he had come to be in Judas Cliffdale's body, while Judas Cliffdale was still himself. He hadn't had time to get the mechanics, just the rules. As good-looking and fun as it was to be Judas, in Judas's body, with his stunning, pretty face, when he looked in the mirror, he yearned to see a different face—his own face. And, there, there it was, on a poster, with blinking eyes hiding behind black, round glasses and messy, ridiculously black, tousled, thick hair. But, no. Never would he wake up with those teeth, again, or those lips, or eyes, or cheeks, or nose. He still had his body frame, but he did not have his old face. He murmured with pain shaking all over his body.

"Get away from there," came a very hoarse, quiet voice.

Harry immediately turned around. Draco was standing about a foot behind him, but Ron was the one who had spoken. He had taken his hood off, and it was a very stupid move. Ronald Weasley was a target, and everyone knew it. But, Ron wasn't talking to him. He was talking to Draco. But, Draco was just standing there, perfectly still, glaring out at Ron from behind very long, dark eyelashes. Strangely enough, Harry was more perplexed at the color of Draco's eyelashes rather than the situation. But, that quickly changed, and he glanced at Ron. It hurt too much, so he quickly looked back at Draco, "Come on."

Draco didn't move, "I wasn't going to do anything _to_ it, Weasley."

But, Ron's mouth was in a hard, dark twist. He was pale. Gaunt. Dead, "Get away from it."

Harry's eyes, beneath the hood of his cloak, and in the dark, began to well with furious, hot, prickling tears. Shit.

Draco snapped, suddenly, and stepped forward, "Fuck you, Weasley, like I can't feel bad about his death."

"You shouldn't," Ron spoke, barely in a whisper, as Draco closed in on him. "If I weren't so bloody drunk off my arse, I'd be pounding your face into the ground. You shouldn't even talk about him to me. You've been talking about his death for years."

Draco pulled off his hood, immediately, with deadened, weary eyes. He stared at Ron, very angrily. No, Weasley was not going to tell him how he felt. He was not going to bother Draco with stupid school-stereotypes, "Do I look happy?"

"Why is it that you suddenly feel horrible? You made his life a living hell."

Draco seethed, "Fine, think what you will, but, let me tell you something before I go," he whispered, getting very close. But, Ron didn't make an attempt to go for his wand. He didn't stutter. He didn't do anything. He was very, very stony-faced. Draco had no doubt, now, while he stepped forward to meet Ron, standing about seven inches from him, that Weasley's entire personality, right at that moment, was warped and miserable. He had lost his best friend—and Draco respected it. He wasn't going to gloat, and he had no reason to.

Harry meant different things to both of them, even if Ron didn't know it. They hadn't ever been this close, either, nor even within five feet of each other without wands drawn. Something blurted out of his mouth, but he wasn't sure what it was until he was done speaking. "Though you will never understand it, my relationship with Harry was no less greater than yours. You were his best friend, and I was his enemy. I'm not happy he's gone, no matter what you think, and I can stand here, innocently, and look at his picture if I damn well WANT to—did you hear me insulting him? No. Did you hear me saying anything disrespectful? No. And, for that, fuck you, Weasley, for always having been his god-damned friend. And, I'll definitely be at his funeral, and if you try to give me a hard time when I'm there—well, just don't. Oh, and, unlike what you and I have, and unlike anything you could probably suspect, I respected Harry—stupid fucking Potter. I did, and he knew it—so fuck you, and if you ever try to tell me how I feel, again, I'll slash you."

Harry, standing about three feet behind Draco, was about to have a panic attack, his palms sweaty. Ron, Malfoy, and his funeral announcement being posted all over Hogsmeade, on huge posters, all in the same night? It would have been a wise idea for Harry to have pulled Draco away when he had approached Ron, for the sake of Ron's safety, but, somehow, Draco had blocked him out, as if he weren't there. But, the way Draco had, _literally_, blocked Harry away from being able to see his face, or Ron's face, had unnerved him. It was clear that he hadn't meant for Harry to hear what he had said, but he had, because he had wandered closer, without shame.

Harry had been worried about Ron's safety, because, Ron, like the rest of the world, had no idea how intensely of a respected bond had sewn Harry to his enemy, and his enemy right back, "Ahem."

It was Ron who broke away from Draco's eyes and glanced at Judas.

Harry was speechless for a long moment. Ron knew it was him! He was see-through! He...! He had no idea. He sighed to himself, in his brain. He wanted so badly for Ron to see through his new face. He wanted so badly for Ron to, somehow, pick up on all of the emotion that Harry could feel sweeping out of his soul and toward his best friend. Ron was staring at him, but not in a friendly way. Tensely, Harry forced a small, discontent smile, "I'm sorry. You're Ronald Weasley, then?"

Ron squinted at him, as did Draco.

Slowly, Ron nodded his head up and down, "I am..." He paused, and then frowned, angrily. "Why?"

Harry quickly shook his head as if to assure him that it was nothing bad, "Draco mentioned you a couple of times the other morning. We were talking about Harry." It was very strange to refer to himself in the third person. The guilt on his conscience was unbelievable. He felt ready to collapse to the ground with weakness. He looked at Draco, but with kind, open eyes, rather than vicious ones, as if to signify to Ron that when he and Draco had talked about Harry, it hadn't been mean or disrespectful. This way, he hoped, things wouldn't be so tense. He didn't want Ron to think he was going to be picked on or threatened by him. He glanced back at Ron. "He said you and Harry were best mates—showed me an article, too, from the Daily Prophet with a picture of you two in it from a couple of years back." Added ego boost. "I'm really sorry for your loss."

There was a long pause.

Ron finally blinked, his arms crossed against his chest. He leaned forward a bit, "Er, who _are_ you?"

Did it matter? Sure it did. Any friend of Draco Malfoy's who was expressing genuine regret over Harry Potter's apparent death needed to be thoroughly examined. Harry knew this was the case, and it was appropriate. Ron was curious. This was a wonderful thing. He cleared his throat and pulled his hood down to his shoulders, very nervously, and forced a light, discouraged smile. It was a much more vulnerable situation, suddenly, for Harry, because he was without his cloak's hood, standing in front of his best friend and next to his best-enemy.

Draco was staring at Harry's face, consistently. Oh, Jesus. He was just staring at Weasley, and Weasley was staring back in some stunned, distorted way. It was clear that Harry was looking at Ron as Ron, and Ron was looking at Harry as Judas Cliffdale, without having needed being introduced as so. He sighed, however, to break Harry out of his shy, emotional staring phase, "Weasley, this is Cliffdale. Judas, he's Weasley." Because, he couldn't call Weasley by his first name, NO! Not to his face!

Ron's eyes flickered back to Draco, and he glared, "What a fine introduction—"

Harry's nose twisted, fighting with himself, "_Anyway_," he interrupted, pointedly, "we're sorry for your loss."

"Yeah," Ron returned, distantly, and then turned to leave. But, he did stop for a second. "I'm sorry for yours, too."

Harry could only nod at him, not wanting to lie any more than he had to. He forced a light, friendly smile. When Ron turned away, with his hood pulled back up over his head, and disappeared back into the Three Broomsticks, he turned around to Draco. He was staring at the Harry-poster, again, in front of it. Reluctant to spend any more time than he had to, staring at his own face he was never going to have back, he still stood at Draco's side. His eyes flickered from his own familiar green eyes, and, instead, settled upon Draco's. He was still without his hood. He was looking straight into the green eyes, as they blinked. Harry lifted his left arm up, between them. He took the resting hood from Draco's back and lifted it up until he dropped it back over the bright head, returning the earlier favor. Instead of withdrawing his left arm, he dropped it over the broad shoulders, watching the reaction to the poster. He suddenly frowned, 'What's wrong?"

Draco was staring down at the cobblestone below their feet, "I will be seeing that face again, won't I be?"

And, he looked right at Harry, with very sharp, questioning, demanding eyes.

Harry coughed a little, first. The answer made Draco jerk, his eyes furious, "It's complicated—"

"Make it easy and answer the fucking question," Draco bit him off, his nose snarling. The answer was obvious, now.

Harry's free right hand tensely squeezed the back of his own neck, and he looked down, strained, "No."

"_No_?" Draco questioned, loudly, clearly not accepting this. "I don't understand." He paused. "I would _like_ to."

Harry glanced at him and crudely, loudly, growled, "He was murdered. He's dead. His body—dead. No heartbeat."

Draco could only stare as Harry dropped his arms from his shoulders, gave him a cold snarl, and turned away. Wait a second, how in the fuck did this work? How did he have Judas's body, and where was Judas? Draco did not understand, in the slightest bit, what was going on, and he really wanted to know before he ended up blurting something out to Harry, like he just had, that upset and offended him. Well, it wasn't like Draco had known! For God's sake, he was Harry fucking Potter in someone else's body! How was it possible for anything to be _impossible_ at that point? All he had wanted was an honest answer. Well, at least he had gotten it. He turned around and followed Harry down the street, "How was I supposed to know?"

Harry turned around, furiously, "Because I already fucking told you, yesterday! Or the day before! Sometime!"

Draco's cheeks sucked in, "Calm the fuck down, would you? It was just a question."

"But, it's not just a question." Harry hissed, and stopped, abruptly. He shoved Draco, and then pulled him closer. "It's my entire face—my body, my hands, my freckles, my eyes." His teeth clenched together. But, Draco was just staring at him, open-mouthed, his eyes so innocent. But, he wasn't innocent. He looked that way because he didn't know what to say, which, also, was a lie. Because, there were plenty of things to say—but, those things just didn't do justice to the situation. Harry's hands were buried deep into the chest material of Draco's cloak, clutching. He gave Draco's form a small shake, but didn't let go, staring at him, nose to nose. But, Draco was waiting. And, Harry finally broke a small barrier of distress and misery. He choked a small cry, but tried to hide it while mentally cursing his emotionally drunk heart. "It's my _scar_," he seethed, "It's my dad's face and my mom's eyes, and now I've got none of the only things that connected me to their faces, physically—I've got _nothing_."

"That's not true, you have pictures."

"Pictures are 2D. They're not on my face when I look in the mirror every morning and see them," Harry snapped.

Oh, okay. Grumbling with a childlike awkwardness, Draco put his hands on Harry's sides, as it to steady him, stabilize him and pace him. Granted, Potter was going to lose it, one of those days. There was no doubt about it. Even just being informed of Harry's life, of his expectations he had on himself and the expectations others placed on him, sent shivers up his own spine. Harry had no family. He had no friends, anymore. He couldn't have Ron. His entire existence was set out to be murdered or be a murderer. Lightly, he squeezed at Harry's robes, staring into his eyes. Were those tears? Oh, no. Not tears. But, Harry's eyes fell down, weakly. His body nearly went with them, but Draco nudged him, hard, "Let's just get back home, and then you can crawl into your bed, and... do whatever it is that hero Gryffindors do to make themselves feel better."

Harry glared at him, "Don't make that into something."

Draco merely chuckled, but kept his lips tightly pressed together. Who thought he would ever be the one looking out after a drunk, emotional, messy version of Harry Potter? Certainly, Draco had never deemed this plausible, "I meant crying."

Before they went back to Hogsmeade's Broom-Check-Closet to retrieve their brooms that they had checked in, Harry walked to one of the posters of himself. He tore it down, being careful not to rip it. He hugged it to his body. Though he was not drunk, his emotions were still heightened. He was feeling very vulnerable, much more so than he had ever felt. He wanted his poster. He wanted his picture, just in case he ever forgot what he looked like. It was a reminder. When he passed Draco, he felt his cheeks flush, "Malfoy?"

Draco followed him, carefully, only about a foot behind, careful to make sure Harry didn't wobble or collapse, "What is it?"

Harry turned around, with his poster clutched to his chest, "I'm a _little_ Draco-gay, I lied. You're rather... sexy. No, pretty. _Yes_, pretty, that's exactly the word I was looking for." He rambled the last part to himself, mostly.

Stopped, immediately, Draco laughed, blinking fervently, "_What did you just say_?"

Harry shrugged at him, "I'd snog you, I would." He grinned. Oh, yes, the Butterbeer was definitely settling in.

"Right," Draco could only respond with, staring after him as he walked away. "I'll mention this in the morning."

Harry turned around, again, this time with a gigantic, sparkling smile and huge, bright eyes, "I'll deny it—won't remember!" It was true. Though his body was not drunk, his soul and mind and feelings were definitely under the influence because those qualities were his, and he didn't have the tolerance that Judas did. He didn't have any walls built up against drunk, emotional outbursts. But, luckily, he had never been an obnoxious drunk, so he didn't get too loud or mouthy. But, he had finally blurted out something enough that was honest. He smirked, strongly, happy with shameless bliss. "I'll miss you, you know."

Draco, humoring him, as they walked, though extremely enthralled, frowned, "Where are you going, dare I ask?"

Harry turned to him, his eyes very serious, "When I finally die. I mean—my soul. I'll miss you. If it's possible to miss a person, wherever you go after death."

"You're not going to die."

"Yes, I am," Harry sighed, and glanced at Draco. "One very lonely seventeen year old boy saving the world. I must die."

Draco's eyes followed after him. He must die? Good lord, "Don't you think you're being a _tad_ bit dramatic?"

Harry turned around, "Ut oh, Draco Malfoy is calling me dramatic."

Draco smiled, oddly satisfied. He sauntered toward Harry, brushing his palms down his heavy, hot cloak, as if to take Harry's words as compliments rather than insults.

They started to walk together, again. Harry paid attention to the road ahead of them, but Draco mostly kept his eyes down on the ground.

"I never finished telling you about my parents."

"I know," Harry returned, quietly, too, deeply, and glanced right at him, with meaning. "I was waiting until we got back."

"What, you're going to bother me when we get back to the estate, too? The tables have turned. I never thought I'd see the day."

Harry grinned. He mocked the same kind of arrogant smirk that existed only on the face of Draco Malfoy. He lifted his left arm up around Draco's shoulders, again, still clutching his gigantic poster to his body with his right elbow. He leaned in, closer, not giving a shit how he came off or what he was doing. He liked being flamboyantly happy. It was easy. It wasn't hard to do. And, instead of every damn little issue being over-analyzed by his own mind, it was a nice change. It was a wonderful change to have someone to just shoot-the-shit, so to say, with. He clutched Draco's shoulder in his hand, fully, "I never thought I'd see the day where I would be walking by your side, down the main strip of Hogsmeade, set on the path back to your estate. I _never_ thought I'd see the day when_ I_ would be more open about _your_ sexuality than you are."

Draco growled, giving Harry a shove away from his body, but Harry hardly budged, "_I am not gay_!"

"The tables were lovely before they turned, weren't they?" Harry asked, suddenly, and shoved his poster against Draco's chest, pulling away. He withdrew his body from the warm crutch he had been walking against. He saw that they were approaching a small square at the center of Hogsmeade. It was a rectangular fountain with seats around it. There were still people milling, many of them, all with their hoods down. He hurried toward the blissful commotion of a crowd, brave and feeling invincible. He was Judas Cliffdale! He was Harry Potter! He was... dead, but alive! He was alive, but dead!

Draco hissed, "Hey! What the hell—Cliffdale, where are you going?" He hurried after Harry, in a jog, battling with the poster as he did so. He followed the quick, agile frame that darted through the dark figures. Some of the figures grumbled at him, as if to ask who dared bump them. Draco kept murmuring apologies for Harry, hurriedly, from under his cloak. But, at last, he stopped, dead, as Harry flew up onto the side of the fountain's cement edge. Oh, no.

Harry tore his hood from over his head and threw his hands out into the air, proudly, "LADIES! AND GENTLEMEN! He bellowed out over the crowd, fearlessly. The silence of the square had already been quite apparent, so he hadn't been actually talking over anyone. However, everyone did stop. But, Harry wasn't afraid. If someone wanted to strike him dead with one look at his face, he wouldn't argue. He needed to be dead with his own body, or he needed to be alive with his own body—but not this body! He was going to use it and abuse it and flaunt it, because he had no other choice.

Draco was open-mouthed, utterly appalled and too cowardly to step up and pull Harry down.

Harry tossed his head, so his hair flew away from his eyes, "I am Judas Cliffdale," he spoke, and then looked out amongst the sea of hooded heads. It wasn't like he needed an introduction. But, he wanted to make an introduction. "I, BOLDLY, am going to go where no Cliffdale has ever gone before—where no Malfoy, or Potter, Dumbledore or Zabini, or any of those names nobly meaningful to you all—I, Judas Cliffdale, as intoxicated as I am, am PROUD, to stand up here and say..." He looked right at Draco, who had pushed himself into the front row and had torn down his hood, his eyes furious, and Harry knew exactly why. He was practically asking to be murdered, right then and there. "I," he sighed, loudly, and looked away from Malfoy, "am _gay_, and I am in love with my best friend!"

For a long moment, it was silent, but a ripple shot through the crowd, unexpected and thunderous.

Satisfied, Harry shrugged his shoulders, clasped his hands together and boxed, "Right, then. Have a nice night!"

Within three seconds, Harry was being attacked off of the cement block, by a ravaging, furious Draco, "You fucking idiot—you're asking for—they know you—I can't believe you just told people that you—Merlin, you are going to regret this so bad in the morning—come on, MOVE IT, move it," Draco was scolding him so loudly, as he sharply led Harry through the front of the crowd, with his hood pulled up over his head. He had nearly attacked Harry with Harry's robe's own hood. How could he? How could he be so dense? So thick? AND GAY? Making them PRETEND to be gay, in the situation, was hardly anything funny. It just made Harry even more of a target! Gay, and drunk, and Judas Cliffdale! What was Harry playing at?

Finally, Draco threw Harry, rather powerfully, against a brick wall in an alleyway.

Harry, mouth agape, silent, with a scratch down his cheek from Malfoy's ring coming in contact with his face, could hardly breathe.

Draco threw the poster down on the ground, between them, "I'm going to beat you into a bloody pulp."

Harry slipped down the brick wall, "Go ahead, I don't care. It's not my face."

"I don't care whose face it is. I just want you to hurt, and I want you to hurt _bad_."

Harry scowled up at him, just as angry, now, "What are you in such a tiff about? God, lighten the fuck up—"

Draco kicked Harry, though lightly, in the side, and spit about a foot from Harry's body. It just happened, "Shut up."

Harry gaped at him, once more, in shock, nursing his side with his left hand. Okay, okay. That was all it took for a sobering up. It really, really was. He hadn't been necessarily drunk. He just had no reason to not take advantage and goof off. He wanted to die. He was going to die in the end, anyway. He had no idea what was going to happen. He knew he couldn't have his body back, and that meant one thing, it seemed. Sighing, miserably, and recalling the words Dumbledore had so tersely confirmed to him days before, he pushed himself up on his hands. He approached Draco's back, silently, his eyes narrowed. He surged forward, locked Draco's neck in his arm's grip, and bent down with him, pinning him. He lifted his knee and just as _lightly_, drilled Draco's side with his knee.

Draco gasped, the wind knocked out of him, as he fell to his knees.

Harry was not surprised as Draco stood up a few moments later. They stood ten feet apart, clueless about the other.

Draco, his hand clutched over his slightly-aching side, innocently looked back at him, "I'm supposed to protect you."

Harry stared at him, incredulously, "No one _ever_ asked you to take on that responsibility. _I_ didn't ask you."

"You don't _get_ it, do you?" Draco suddenly snipped, and stepped closer toward him. "_You're all I've got_." This time, Harry looked away, as if giving a very small interval in which he was going to allow Draco to speak, freely, about what he was feeling. Oh, and he would have done it with OR without Potter's permission. "You didn't have to tell me, and now that you have, I can't damn well go on about my life as if I _don't _know. You have a mission to fucking get on with, don't you? I'm not going to let you fuck it up. I understand you better than you think I do—"

"Bullshit," Harry barked at him, heatedly, and turned away, strongly, his hands clutching his sides. "You know nothing."

"Oh, don't I?" Draco asked, right back, without taking another blink. He followed Harry, so he couldn't get away, so he couldn't have his own little personal bubble to feel like he had control of the situation, though they both clearly knew he was annoyed with the fact that neither of them had control. It went back and forth, back and forth, without control. They had not assigned each other positions or stereotypes. They were who they were. "I know that you've lost your entire family. I know that your best mates betrayed you. I know that you don't have a parent to cry to. I know that you _want_, more than anything, to kill yourself, or have someone else kill you—but, I, as the only one of us who can still see you as you've always been, am going to have to be the one to remind you that—yes, while you have no family, and no friends, you still have Dumbledore, and you still have me—I know I'm no Weasley, as you've made the point of telling me, already. Okay? But, I'm doing the best I can. You trying to get yourself killed is a huge slap in the face."

Draco was standing behind Harry, know, and Harry was facing a wall, like a child, indignant, "I didn't ask for your—"

"My protection, then," Draco interrupted, "is nothing to you, therefore I mean nothing to you?"

"Obviously," Harry chirped back at him, out of the heat of the moment. But, then he frowned, ashamed of his immaturity.

"What is this?" Draco asked, seriously. "What is _this_ called? Are you drunk or aren't you? Or are you being an arse?"

"The second part—the arse," Harry responded and turned around, dropping his arms. "I don't know if I'm drunk. I feel fine."

Draco stared at him, "You need to trust me. And, if you don't think you're ever going to, tell me now."

"Oh, come on, Malfoy, don't do this right now," Harry groaned at the serious, worried, frustrated tone. He walked around Draco and toward his poster. He didn't mean to do these things to upset Draco, he really didn't. But, he did end up upsetting Draco, or offending him, and then Draco took it very seriously. He was too smart to be around Harry, Harry figured. He cared. He genuinely, genuinely cared about what the fuck was going on, and Harry kept reverting back to the place in his mind where Malfoy was just a game, just a dumb school-nemesis who knew nothing about anything that was going on in Harry's life. But, none of this was a game, now, and he was being juvenile. He was going to regret it very much in the morning. With this, he knew that he was very intoxicated. He snatched his poster up from the ground. "Please."

Draco turned around, too, silently, "You need to tell me everything."

Harry's eyes floated up from the ground, awkwardly. Damnit. He fought with himself, "Fine—but, not here."

"Okay," said Draco, walking toward him. "How do you suppose we escape Hogsmeade tonight, alive?"

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry couldn't help but chuckle, as he clasped his hand over Draco's cheek. Such glowing skin! It had pulled at Harry's attention like a magnet. His hand had flown there before he had given it fully-thought-through permission to do so.

Draco, very awkwardly, looked at Harry's wrist, his eyes slanted, "Well, well, _Cliffdale_, is that your hand on my cheek?"

Harry smiled at him, "I can't touch my friend's cheek?" Draco frowned, very deeply. Harry snorted. "What, _now_?"

"You're gay," Draco suddenly stated, staring at him with an expression made of mixed realizations and epiphanies.

"Sadly, no," Harry honestly returned and dropped his palm. "I'm not above any other drunk, hormonal teenager."

"Okay, so," Draco proposed, as Harry glanced at him. He seemed sincere. Interesting, "you'd snog a boy, then, too?"

Harry turned around, "Draco," he laughed out. Did he not see this coming? Had he not caught onto the fact that Harry had absolutely no problem with being flamboyant? He enjoyed it very much, "what the fuck is wrong with you? Like I said, earlier, I am not against anything. I'm not gay. I'm not bisexual. So far, I've been nothing but straight. I am a normal seventeen year old wizard at the end of the night. _You are the one_ who thinks I'm so adament about not being gay. I have nothing to hide. I'm not freaked out by the idea of boys kissing boys—especially when they're blasted off their arses, a'right?"

Draco was watching him, confused as all hell. That made no sense to him! "No, that's not _a'right_!"

Harry spun around from peaking out between the two buildings that hid them, chuckling, "_What is wrong with you_!"

"Nothing, I'm trying to make sense of what you're saying, but it doesn't make sense! Are you gay, or _are you straight_?"

"Oh, come _on_," Harry hissed, up at the sky between the buildings. His eyes fell onto Draco's, heavily, "I'm _me_."

Draco reached out and squeezed Harry's face between his hands, but in a friendly way, pretending to strangle, "That does not make sense, either! Answer the question!" Grr! But, Harry was laughing, his cheeks squished together between Draco's palms. His lips were made into a little fishy-mouth, pouted and drawn. His eyes were wrinkled, and his eyebrows were twisted in amusement. Wrinkles had taken over his entire forehead. But, he kept laughing, and his face became more and more indented with hilarious cuteness. Rolling his eyes, at Harry's non-answer, he dropped his hands to Harry's shoulders. "Are you going to make me come on to you to get my answer?"

Harry rolled his eyes, "Malfoy," he said, again, and this time more quietly, as if this somehow made what he was about to say more serious. "I'm not gay, right now. One day? Perhaps."

Draco fumed, again, "You're _planning _on becoming gay? What the fuck? "

Harry was laughing, hard, at the pure frustration smacked across the gorgeous face in front of his, "Stop twisting my words around! I said that I'm not gay. I'm straight, okay?" But, Draco, now silent, was shooting daggers at him. Harry put his hands out between them, as if to carefully soothe the situation. He really wasn't gay, but he wasn't _not_ gay, either. He wasn't decided. He wasn't bisexual. It was all easily summed up. "I don't go by orientations. Whoever I fall in love with, one day, I'll fall in love with her—or him. It'll most likely be a her, but if I actually found attraction to a man—more-so than a woman, and I felt a connection, I might go for it. Do you get it, or no?"

But, Draco was just staring at him, with blue-silver eyes narrowed into half-moons.

"I'm just me. I'm not against the idea of being with a man, but I'm not really interested in it, either. I don't know, maybe I'm asexual—I'm already so screwed up. It's not like I've ever really had time to go on and debate about my orientation, you know. Don't try to turn it into what it is or isn't. I'm just me—and, if you want to know me, you're going to have to grasp onto that. Sadly, and in a very non-arrogant way do I mean this, but I'm in a category of my own—I don't live for black or white. I can't live in gray, so I live in variations of dark black, or variations or nearly white. I just do what I want, and I feel what I want, and I know who I want and when and how I want who I want. Okay?" He was speaking very quietly, a little embarrassed about having to be talking about this in an alleyway..

Had they really resorted to talking about Harry's sexual orientation? They had. And, how? Harry was so amused. Or not.

Draco was hugging himself, strangely unable to meet the brown eyes he knew were waiting, "Yeah, okay."

Harry nodded, grateful, "So, will you drop it, now that you have your answer?"

Draco's nose twitched, anxiously. He didn't have his answer, "You would snog a boy, then?"

Harry sighed at him, but turned away to check back out between the buildings, "Sure, Malfoy, _I'd gladly snog a boy."_

"You are gay," Draco spouted, confidently, and stood tall. "That wasn't hard, was it?"

Harry turned around to him, this time eerily silent. But, after a few moments, he moved closer to Draco, "Tell me..."

Draco took an innocent step backward, away from Harry, "Tell you what?"

"Tell me that you're straight, and I'll believe you." Harry stopped. "I'll never question it, again."

"I'm straight."

Harry just barely smirked, "Okay," he agreed with the lie, and then turned away. "Coast is clear, come on. Keep your head down."

Draco shifted, awkwardly, in the corner of the small alley way. Harry looked back at him, probably expecting him to be right there, ready to get out of Hogsmeade. But, no, he wasn't, for once, invading Harry's personal bubble. It was like there was a chemical reaction taking over his body. It was like a potion gone wrong, unknowingly, inside of his body. He was shivering, and he knew what he was shivering at. When Harry's eyes flickered to him, they were extremely confused and impatient. But, Draco was not interested in their current escape plan. Instead, he was concentrated on his own lie. He twisted, backing himself into the brick corner, at last, with is left hand cupping the back of his neck, tightly, his face gaunt with sharply sucked-in cheeks, his body aching, "I don't know."

"I know." It didn't take a Potions Master to see that Draco was in an... er, experimental phase.

Draco stared at him.

Harry, very cautiously, took a small step toward him, but then kept his distance, "Are you all right, Malfoy?"

"Yeah," Draco answered, shortly, but it came out all wrong. He cleared his throat, as if to deter the obvious crackling. "No," he quickly corrected himself, as Harry shrugged and went to turn away, once again. Damnit, he kept blurting out the wrong things. Couldn't he ever get anything right? He growled at himself as Harry stopped, but kept his back turned. Anxious, Draco's left hand itched at the back of his head, feeling skittish and paranoid. "No, what do you think? I mean, aside from the flamboyant thing—and not that it's not an act—but, what do you think... I mean, about me? I mean, about who I am?"

Harry turned around, awkwardly wondering about the topic of their conversation, "I don't think I know you well enough."

Draco frowned, "Right, _yeah_." He walked toward the opening of the alley. "Yeah, you're right." He passed Harry.

Harry watched after him, "I don't think you're gay, Malfoy." He then paused. "I do think you have... _loyalties_, however."

Draco ignored him, without one stuttered, stunned glance. Oh, fuck Potter. Oh, GOD. _Fuck_ Potter? Draco hissed. _Loyalties_! What a smarmy little git. No, no, no, he wasn't. He had said it as absentmindedly as he had been able to, apparently. The fact that he had even been brave enough to tell Draco that Draco had certain loyalties, a.k.a. feelings—a.k.a., loyalty-tied feelings to his only loyalty—the ultimate a.k.a. meaning loyalty-tied feelings to _Harry_. It wasn't a lie, not fully. He did, in some twisted sort of way, whether friendly or anything more or less than that, have a strange love for Harry. And, Harry knew it, too. Oh, it was awkward. No, no, it wasn't. He hadn't said it in an awkward tone. It was Draco who felt like he was trying to crawl out of his own body.

A few seconds later, Harry was walking beside him, with a nervous, forced smile, "You're slouching." Brilliant, Harry. _Idiot!_ Well, at least it was something!

Draco looked at him.

Harry looked away. He blurted out the worst question in the world, that he could have fathomed, and he asked it to his former enemy, "Well, it's not _love_, is it?"

Draco's body convulsed to a stop, and he squeezed his head between his palms, "Did you just ask me if I was in love with you?"

Harry lightly laughed, completely and totally humiliated by what had left his own mouth. But, was it that surprising to ask? It shouldn't have been, not with the way Draco had been so keen to add in little remarks about his feelings for Harry. He didn't know Malfoy's orientation, he really didn't. Anytime he had ever made a comment about Draco's flamboyant, flirty persona, he had just been teasing. But, he didn't want any unsettled issues between them. If Malfoy was all he had, he wanted to know, just for the hell of it, "Just answer the question."

Draco stared at him, mouth agape, as they stood outside the closet their brooms were checked into, "Are you _kidding _me?"

"No, I'm very seriously asking you a question. You've been making insinuations, non-stop, so just get it over with. Answer it." When Draco turned to him, fully, his arms were wrapped across his chest, his jaw was clenched to the left, and there was absolutely no sign of any ordinary Malfoy-esque friendliness. No, no. It was replaced by the same cold, domineering, cynical bitterness that had so easily returned.

"That doesn't mean that my feelings for you have anything to do with love," Draco's voice was high.

"All right," Harry bit right back at him, now that Draco was in face. "No need to get so bloody angry, Malfoy."

Draco turned his body around, completely, until he stood opposite of Harry. He threw his hands out between them, very ungracefully, frustrated with the way their conversations so often revolved around sexual preferences, "Can we just stop talking about this, at least for tonight? I'm not in love with you. I'm not gay. You're you. We have our answers, and I never want to talk about it ever again!" But, Harry had his lips pressed together, and he was looking down at his feet, shuffling with his left foot, his arms wrapped around his back. He said nothing, just continued shuffling as if he were not supporting or defying the idea. "Look, I have to keep you safe."

Harry chortled as he looked up, his eyes brightened. Malfoy sounded so proud, "You have to keep me safe?"

"Okay, so _you have to keep me safe_, too, eventually, but until that fateful day so valiantly arrives, I have to have your back."

"You do have my back," Harry informed him of this. "And, just so you know," he added, honestly, "I have yours."

Draco nodded his head, once, and turned away to the broom closet. He unlocked their spell-lock with his wand, and the small, thin, long locker popped open. He reached in and wrapped his hand around the first broom. He lifted it out and shoved it against Harry's chest, hastily, as Harry stood beside him. He heard a grumble of annoyance, but instead of acknowledging it aloud, he took it in with a laugh. He grabbed the other broom and pulled it out, closing the locker after he did so. When he turned around, Harry was holding his broomstick two feet away from his body, with his palm resting over the top. His shoulder was tensed and his body was awkwardly positioned, but in a sexy, natural way. Glaring at him, now, Draco snapped the bottom of his broom forward and slapped Harry's stomach, playfully. "Stop trying to make me want you."

Harry was grinning, broadly, as he dropped his pose, "I don't have to try, Malfoy."

"Oh, you don't have to try, Malfoy," Draco imitated him, following him toward a more spacious place to take off.

Harry bumped his shoulder to Draco's, purposely, "I thought we weren't _allowed_ to talk about such things, Malfoy."

"We can't, now. I was just waiting for that small little nudge you gave me. I needed something to tie me over, tonight, see."

Harry rolled his eyes up to the sky as he took a foot lead, his mouth twisted, his cheeks scrunched, "I'll tie you over."

Draco smiled, watching the back of Harry's cloaked head. But, his eyes began to travel downward. Wait, NO! He could only muster a growl, "Shut up.

Harry came to a stop and turned around, as he jumped onto his broomstick—well, Malfoy's broomstick. No! No! What a terribly terminology! But, he laughed, really loudly, at himself, and couldn't help but genuinely smile at Draco, having been way too entertained and happy with their night of bonding that he was sure only they could perfect into strange dysfunction, bonds, pacts, short-tempered verbal fights that neither took full offense to, and laughter, "Ready to go, moody, hormonal, stereotypical boy?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked, as he swung his leg up over his horizontal broomstick. "And, come on."

As they rose up into the air a few feet, Harry glanced at him, holding his poster to his chest, again, "I meant nothing."

"As long as you say so." Draco smiled at him, knowingly, appreciative of the dismissal due to his own earlier request.

"As long as I say nothing, your ignorance is my bliss!"

"I thought my ignorance was supposed to be my own bliss, Potter?" He asked, about fifty feet in the air, whispering.

Harry smirked at him, "You've passed ignorance. Now, you're just in denial. It's rare to be blissful while in denial."

"Hmm," Draco mostly ignored the whole point of Harry's witty little explanation, "Why is my ignorance _your_ bliss?"

"Hey, the longer you keep your love for me to yourself, the longer I can laugh about it."

Draco grabbed at a pine cone as they passed a pine-tree. Though Harry quickly sped away, Draco still hit him with it.

Harry, fifty feet away, spun around on his broomstick, with his hood down, delighted, laughing his head off, "YOU LOVE ME!"

"FUCK YOU, AND YOUR LITTLE POSTER, TOO!"

Harry snorted with laughter as Draco sped toward him. When he got to Harry, however, he stopped, too, "Malfoy."

Draco laughed, not restricting this smile.

Harry was in awe.

"Potter."

Harry looked him over, a small smile making its way to his face, "I made the worst judgment in my life, and I made it on you six years ago," he quietly admitted. It was hard to do, but it was easy to say. He had been so stupid, years previous. Draco had always kept Harry's human side. He had always been the little shake down to earth when things were rough. Harry could be battling Voldemort, and Draco would say something about the color of his socks, and suddenly he would remember what it was like to be just a human, again. He had been a very essential part of Harry's sanity, though Harry would never had ever realized this if he hadn't have been in that very moment, fifty feet above a forest of pine-trees, staring eye to eye with a pair of light-filled, liquid-like, glittering silver, blue-ish eyes. "I know it's not much, but I'm sorry."

Draco's expression fell. He felt his cheeks flush. He looked around, suddenly, almost paranoid, "You don't have to—"

"No," Harry interrupted him, this time, very determined, "I really have to. You're right, you would have been an excellent friend. I shouldn't have blown you off without knowing you."

"No," Draco assured, embarrassed, "you _really_ should have. It's only been the last couple of years that I've changed."

"Well, regardless, I always knew there was a part of you that wasn't corrupted and evil. In a way, I kind of love you."

"Oh my god," Draco laughed, very quietly, looking down at his hands on his broom. "Stop while you're ahead, Potter."

Harry grinned, "Believe me, I'm going to regret this tomorrow morning, so enjoy it while it lasts. Thanks, for everything."

But, Draco knew what he was being thanked for. He was being thanked for being a nemesis, and he was proud. Instead of continuing on about anything else, about how embarrassed and surprised he was feeling, even a little light-headed, he found Harry's eyes, bravely. They were warm. Oh, no. And, they were very serious. They contemplative and honest. Open, and welcoming. He fought with his sarcasm for a second, but then, at last, when he realized that this was Harry, not Harry Potter his sworn enemy, he only nodded, "You're welcome."

Harry nodded back, "Great," he happily agreed, and then looked away. "We're probably really stupid to be flying."

"What?" Draco asked, but then acknowledgment flushed over his face. "Oh, drinking and flying." He paused. "We're idiots."

"_You're_ an idiot. If I remember correctly, I opted for Floo Powder," Harry easily corrected him. "We'll go to Cornwell's."

Draco coughed, loudly, into his right hand, honestly surprised, "What? Are you crazy? No, we can't, I—"

Harry glanced at him, "Come on, Malfoy, you know he won't mind. He'll be delighted, and you can see Dickinson..."

"_Dickie_," Draco corrected, immediately, in a very pointed way, as he began to follow Harry's slow glide. "Okay, fine."

At that very moment, a bright green, blinding light took over the sky. Their eyes both shot upward, mouths agape.

The Dark Mark.

Harry grabbed at Draco's sleeve, as he stared up, his face showered in green tint, "Come on, let's get out of here."

Draco didn't need telling twice. He followed Harry through the trees in the forbidden forest, behind Hogsmeade. They were taking the longer route to get to Cornwell's, because it was safer. Through the forest, they were less likely to be seen traveling by broom. They stuck together more closely than they had the last two or three times that they had ridden by broom, together, back and forth between the Malfoy estate and Hogsmeade. Their pace was just as fast, but there was a solid-ness about it, because they were flying together. When Draco would fly left, he would leave room, and Harry would veer left, too.

Eventually, they swooped down to ground level, in the fields by Cornwell's country road, and sped across the tall grass, side by side. As they got closer to Cornwell's street, they could see things in a great amount of detail. It was only about halfway across the field when Draco was pulverized to the ground, with a hand tightly wrapped around his mouth. He landed on his stomach, on the broom. By the very familiar scent of cool, fall, October mornings and faint vanilla candles, he knew that it was Harry whose full weight was pressed down over him, completely. He didn't make a sound, and was, in return, able to breathe out of his mouth as Harry released his palm.

They were hidden in the grass.

Harry said nothing, very quietly falling onto the grass beside Draco. But, Draco never had to look at him for an answer as to why he had just been tackled to the ground from three feet in the air, at dangerous speeds. He had instincts, Harry noticed, because his eyes were looking for any sign of danger or trouble around them, immediately. And, through the tall, long grass, he knew that Draco had spotted what Harry had so very luckily spotted in the dark only seconds before.

Only twenty feet ahead of them was a heard of Death Eaters, or a group of random wizards, in a field, in the dead of night. There was no other option of who it could have been, especially since the Dark Mark had just risen up over Hogsmeade in multiple places. In the distance, as they both looked over, at the same time, they could see that more Dark Marks had popped up in random locations above the streets of Hogsmeade.

Draco's eyes locked back onto the group. They were moving. They were moving toward Cornwell's street.

Harry looked at him.

Draco looked back.

Harry wrapped his left arm tightly around Draco's shoulders and pressed his mouth to Draco's ear, "Stay close."

They watched, in the same position, for a few more seconds, until the group had walked further away.

Harry climbed up onto his knees, in the very tall grass. It still covered him. He looked down, to his left, to see that Draco was no longer laying in the grass on his stomach, but rather just as equally on his knees, his eyes hawked on Cornwell's street. This was no light matter. No, no, not at all. Cornwell's arrival, maybe even his lack of beard, earlier that day, at the Malfoy house, in front of all of the press, had been a huge deal.

Harry still knew nothing about why Cornwell had thrown away everything magical in his life. Something had happened, but it was far too personal for Draco to ever have revealed to him, especially so soon. Whatever it was, Harry was beginning to wonder how involved, exactly, Voldemort was. He pressed his mouth back to Draco's ear, "We're going to head over to the left, to the forest, on broom. When we get there, stay below the treetops. We'll follow it to the other side of Cornwell's street. We can bust through his windows from the opposite direction—the bastards will never see us.

Draco turned his head, and when he did, Harry's lips pulled away, as did his shivers of... well, DAMNIT. He blinked, quickly, to knock his inner attraction to Harry out of his mind. He nodded his head, silently. Harry had already clutched his broomstick, laying down over it horizontally, and was hovering just inches off of the ground, which meant, as they were getting to the forest, they were going to stay in the tall grass, which meant Draco was going to be whipped with tiny little plants. But, he was already up and flying evenly, literally arm to arm, with Harry, only seconds later, laying across his own broomstick and violently thrashing past the long, wispy, innocent pieces of grass.

The fly to the forest, and then through the forest, seemed to last forever. But, eventually, while they watched the Death Eaters get closer and closer toward the street, the plan changed. Instead of taking the forest the extra few hundred feet, in a semi-circle, to get to the other side of Cornwell's street, Harry pulled out from the forest, with Draco right behind him, and they flew only two or three inches from the ground, mostly blinded because the only thing they could see was the grass quickly flying by, cutting in a direct path that would take them to the back or Cornwell's house, while the group approached from the right.

Within seconds, they were at the back of his house.

They flew around to the left side.

Draco flicked his wand over one of the windows, "Silencio!"

Not even a second after that had Harry cast a spell to shatter the glass. It burst into millions of pieces, but didn't make the tiniest of sounds.

Draco flew in, his head pounding so loudly that he couldn't hear his own thoughts.

It was a bedroom. It was Cornwell's bedroom. He was asleep, with one candle lit, "Cornwell! Cornwell!" He hissed, with Harry right behind him, as he jumped off of his broom. He immediately shook Cornwell, hard. In result, Cornwell's eyes flew open, wide with terror. "Silencio!" Draco hissed, again. He pulled his hood down and turned his head to the left to see that Harry had picked up a sleeping, blanketed Dickinson from a wooden toddler bed in a small, rectangular, additional part of the square main bedroom. His eyes darted back down to Cornwell who had stopped struggling when Draco had exposed his face. "Death Eaters."

Cornwell was up, a second later, while Harry shot off out the window, on his broom, with Dickie clutched tightly in his arms. God-damn, Potter was fast. But, Draco was already on his broom, literally shaking with anxiety and nerves. He turned his head back to Cornwell, about to hiss that he needed to hurry and not worry about anything, but Cornwell had grasped under his bed and pulled out a bag, as well as a broom. The bag already had things in it. He took it, muttered a spell that Draco had never, ever even heard of, and hopped, sideways, on his broomstick.

They flew out the window, and Draco spotted Harry hovering next to the houses across the street.

Once Draco and Cornwell met Harry, they all flew into the woods, into the complete dark.

But, Harry turned around and pointed his wand toward Cornwell's small, tiny house, "Reparo!" In his left arm, a small, quiet, doe-eyed little boy was staring up at him. The little thing was very content, not at all perplexed. Harry found this endearing and adorable, as he turned back around, knowing that Draco and Cornwell were both stopped, too, all three of them hovering about five feet in the air.

Cornwell leaned forward and took the warm bundle from Harry, with a very grateful, tearful expression.

Harry just smiled, and then looked back at Draco, as they started to glide, again, faster than the normal, average speed, "You stick with him no matter what happens," he said, of Cornwell to Draco. "Don't let him get into a situation where he's alone."

Draco reached over to him and slapped his upper arm, his forehead wrinkled, very stressed out, "You stick close to me."

Harry reached over and gave his upper back a friendly clap. He breathed out, with his own relief, finally, "You did good.

The hour and fifteen minutes it took to get back to the Malfoy estate was extremely stressful, but proved to be safe. Well, safe _enough_.


	8. Admittedly

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** Well, thank-you to the one reviewer from last chapter. Hahaha, thanks Bezzie, I appreciated it:D.

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Eight

Admittedly

The next morning that Draco woke up, things were... difficult. Not only had he spent most of the night trying to explain to his mother why Cornwell and his son were now going to be taking secret refuge in the Malfoy home, but he had also been prone to stubbing his foot, repeatedly, on things through-out the whole entire night and woke up with a sore, aching right foot. But, his mother was his main problem. She hadn't given her approval, even, by the end of much arguing in her private study. Nothing had been accomplished, but she also hadn't sent Cornwell and Dickie packing and on their way. But, because she didn't kick them out, Draco knew that he was going to have to be very careful. He couldn't risk anyone finding out that he and Harry had swooped in and taken Cornwell.

No one could know that Cornwell was staying in the mansion. Therefore, they stayed tucked away in an unused wing.

It was when Draco opened his front door, to take a walk outside in the fresh, crisp morning that he was knocked senseless. Once he had set his eyes on the sight in front of his home, outside of the gates in the distance, he had turned around and walked back inside, numbly, wondering idly why people were screaming things at him that he couldn't make out and shaking the latest editions of the Daily Prophet up in the air, at him, as if he should have known.

Draco walked in through the open double doors of the dining room, and then stopped.

His mother, Cornwell, Dickie, and Harry were all seated around the table. It was very awkward, even from where he stood. His mother was stabbing her fork at her eggs, avoiding even acknowledging Cornwell—who, subsequently, was too busy cutting up whatever was on Dickie's plate, hissing something to Harry, across the table, about the Malfoys having house elves who thought a little toddler could inhale big chunks of food. Harry, in return, was grinning, sheepishly.

Dickie was the only person who wasn't too preoccupied, with thoughts or eating, to notice Draco, "Draco!"

Draco smiled at him, cautiously walking closer toward the table. The breakfast at the Malfoy estate had never been like this. It had only ever been him, his mother and Lucius. But, now, it was his mother, his brother, his birth-father and Harry Potter. Thinking this over, he couldn't help but give a shiver of disbelief. He rubbed the back of his head and motioned to the curtain-covered, floor length windows to the right of him, "Who can fill me in on the angry masses?"

Narcissa sighed, loudly, and only answered the question by glaring, very hard, at Harry, and then stabbing her eggs.

Harry looked away from Draco's mother. She had been this way all morning, not that he could blame her. When Harry had been wondering around the entrance hall, waiting for some form of another human life, that morning, he had run into Cornwell, who had told him that Draco and his mother had been up arguing nearly all night. This was unfortunate, because Harry had been supposed to help Draco coax his mother into the idea of Cornwell and Dickie staying, but he had ended up falling to sleep in the estate's library, where he and Draco had been trying to pinpoint the right, most logical strategy to ease the situation.

But, as if that hadn't been bad enough, the Daily Prophet... had... taken a chunk out of her, it seemed.

Draco pointed at Harry, awkwardly, for answers, as he pulled his chair out at the end of the table.

Harry sat up straight. He reached down beside his chair and pulled up the Daily Prophet. Narcissa had tried to take it from him, but he had managed to grab it out of the trash-can she had dumped it in, earlier, in the kitchen. She hadn't wanted Draco to see, obviously. But, he had to. And, it wasn't pretty. But, it wasn't terribly horrible. In fact, Harry was proud of the front-page spectacle. He pushed it down the table and mocked misery, "Read for yourself."

Draco unfolded the Daily Prophet. For a second, he was sure he was choking on his own breath.

The front page of the Daily Prophet had Judas's face with the words "Judas Cliffdale, in love with Draco Malfoy?"

Draco's mouth was in a slight twist as he glanced at Harry, awkwardly, "Are you bloody kidding me? Is this real?"

Harry tried not to laugh, not wanting to appear suspicious, "Can you believe, with of all things going on right now, this makes the front page news? And, not even part of it—the whole page! They even have a crossword puzzle, today, with all of the words related to you, me, and homosexuals, and I'm not kidding. I found and circled the word—"

Draco had opened the paper up, to see where the article ended. It went on to the second page, and then onto the third. He flipped to the fourth page, and his eyes landed on the crossword puzzle game that Harry had, obviously, been having quite the time figuring out. His eyes landed on the word "shaft", and he coughed, "I see," he quickly interrupted, looking back at the pairs of eyes watching him. He looked at Harry, specifically, with a hidden grin. "I bet the Prophet will be getting some letters filled with choice words from parents."

Harry looked away from him and down to his own, full, untouched plate, "It's all over the news."

Draco folded the paper up, slowly. He stared at Harry, very awkwardly. And, then, he could feel a pair of eyes burning into his chest, so he turned his attention to his mother, who was sitting opposite him, all of the way at the other end of the table. She had placed her fork down and was just staring him down, her blue eyes pricked with fury and betrayal. As soon as she saw that his eyes were looking back at her, they quickly flickered to Harry, as if to ask if it were true. Immediately, Draco rolled his eyes, "Mother, not only am I not gay, but Judas was just being a loud mouth. He's not in love with me—"

"Is this true, Judas?" Narcissa asked, sharply, cutting Draco off and turning to Harry, her eyes rather cold.

Harry looked back at Draco, "Please, Misses Malfoy, I barely know Draco, now," he said, seriously, and looked back at her. It was the truth. "I never mentioned him by name. I said I was in love with my best friend—the media supposed that my best friend was Draco, and why wouldn't they? The whole world is led to believe that Draco and I are... I don't know, Draco, what do you think they think we are?"

Draco frowned, "There has always been speculation about your sexuality, Judas, but now you've tarnished my name."

"Tarnished?" Harry asked, loudly, without having to force the disbelief and surprise. TARNISH? Tarnish WHAT? He looked away from Draco, suddenly annoyed. Of course, all of the talk about sex and love the night before, though they had been drunk, was probably off limits to ever be spoken of, between them, again. Annoyed, Harry wiped his napkin-cloth over his lips. He then pressed it down in his lap, his eyes narrowing away from Draco's and back to Narcissa's. He couldn't help the liberty of the moment. He turned his attention down to his plate and only to his plate. "Tarnish, Draco? As if being gay is something disgusting and despicable to you?"

Draco blinked, but he stayed silent for a second, while Harry was. Ut oh, what was this seriousness? "Maybe it is."

Harry looked at him, with scathing eyes. He had made his declaration, the night before, as Judas Cliffdale. It wasn't like it was a lie. Harry had been looking into old articles and gossip magazines about Judas Cliffdale and his "mystery" lover, and all of the reports about him and his best friend, from back where he was from. But, he hadn't gotten any sign, yet, that morning, from the real Judas Cliffdale, that should have made him immediately dispute the article as false, "Draco, if you think being gay is such a horrible thing, then I'm a horrible thing to you. And, if I'm a horrible thing you to, and I've already tarnished my name, I'll gladly go about revoking my words—in jest though they were. And, if you feel so crammed by even being mentioned by a gay man, though I never mentioned your name and now you're linked to me, I think it'd be best if we didn't spend so much time together, while I'm here."

"Judas, it's actually true?" Narcissa asked, very quietly, staring at him, with her hand over her heart. "You're... _gay_?"

Harry turned away from staring at Draco, with confidence, "Yes, gay. Extremely, extremely gay."

Draco made a fist under the table, his teeth clenched together, ignoring his mother, "Don't overreact, _Judas_."

"Draco," Cornwell finally spoke up, "I think you should close your mouth before you upset your guest."

"He's not my guest, he's not even my mother's guest. He's his own guest, because he is in his _own category_."

Harry's eyes shot to Draco's, though hardly amused, "Keen memory, Draco."

Draco looked out the window, completely away from everyone at the table, "I didn't mean that I didn't support you."

"No, you obviously don't support me if you're against gays!"

Draco wanted to strangle Harry, he really did. He clutched his hands over the sides of his chair, his top lip rising in annoyance and frustration. He just wanted to throw his fork at Harry and tell him to shut up, because he actually WASN'T gay. He was making a scene! A pointless scene, there at breakfast, his first breakfast with Dickie, and Cornwell, and his mother. God, why couldn't Harry just admit who he was to Cornwell and Narcissa? Things would be so much easier. He sighed and turned his eyes back to Harry, "I'm not against anything."

Harry squinted, seriously. Suddenly, he spewed with real annoyance, "You're full of contradictions. And, lies."

"Would you just shut up and eat your eggs?" Draco asked, loudly, over Harry's snarky, honest annoyance.

"Why don't you shut up and admit you're gay?" Harry grumbled, but he didn't do it as silently as he had intended.

Draco stopped chewing his first bite of eggs. He didn't look up from his plate, his fork halfway between it and his mouth.

Cornwell had stopped chewing, and Narcissa had choked on a sip of whatever was in her goblet.

Even Dickie, completely oblivious to the situation, was staring at Draco, just because everyone else was.

Draco placed his fork down and pushed his chair back. His eyes flickered up to Harry, who was the only person sitting on the left side of the table. Okay, that was it. There needed to be rules. They needed to have a SYSTEM, here. Harry couldn't go around blurting these things out. They were supposed to be having fun with lying. It wasn't supposed to be serious—and Draco must have been looking down for a few seconds when things had turned from amused to serious on Harry's face. How could he blurt something out like that? And, what the fuck? Did it matter? Hadn't they covered this, before?

Draco pushed himself up, his palms flat on the wooden table, his eyes hooded and dark, "We need to talk, _now_."

Harry pushed his chair back to, unfaltering, "Here's a better idea, _Draco_—I'll leave, you stay."

"You're right, that is a better idea." Draco stood, fully, as Harry passed him. "On your way out, trip and die."

"Gay-basher," Harry threw at him, over his shoulder, as he strolled out of the dining room, fuming. He didn't even know why! No, he did! He couldn't believe how elitist Draco was. All Draco cared about was how he looked in front of other people. He had to be perfect. He couldn't be gay. He couldn't he against being a Death-Eater. He couldn't be himself—not even wear the kind of clothes he wanted to wear. He was stuck in this disgusting little mind-set, though he acknowledged that he didn't even agree with it. After the night before, and all of the little talks about sexuality, it had just rubbed Harry the wrong way when Draco had been so adament, even if he had only been saying it to add to their lie, about being upset that _Judas_ had _tarnished_ Draco's name by associating him with a homosexual.

A few seconds later, he heard footsteps behind him, so he turned around.

Draco was following him. He stopped.

Harry stopped, too, his cheeks sucked in. He spat, "You're unbelievable, Malfoy! A true, class act."

At the same time, Draco leaned forward, with hugely furious eyes and hissed, "The nerve of you, Potter!"

The small chorus in unison was followed by a very small silence.

Harry was the first to respond as he turned his back and began to walk, "Oh, come on, Malfoy—"

"No," Draco quickly interrupted him, following him down a hallway off the side of the entry hall. He was sure that Harry had no idea where he was going, because he was storming down the hallway with his head turning from one side to the other, as if to figure out which door he could open, close, and then block Draco out. But, extremely annoyed and confused, Draco grabbed the back of Harry's gray sweatshirt.

Harry catapulted back toward Draco before he turned around, battling with wiggling himself loose, "Get off!"

Draco let him go, once Harry had turned to face him, "I thought we were pulling one over on everyone, here, and you go off and pull this shit on me? Bloody—I mean, come on, what did you want me to say? Oh, by the way, yeah, I'm totally in love with Judas—fuck you! _I'm not gay_! And, even if I was, it's not any of your right to go on and try to out me!" But, Harry had his arms crossed over his chest, and he was looking down at the floor, appearing unimpressed and, very clearly, biting, hard, on his tongue to keep from speaking. "I don't get it," he finally gave in, frustrated, too, and sighed. "Why did you just turn something so innocent into something so... evil and _real_? We're playing roles, here—or is it that only you're the one who gets to play the role, and I have to be myself, and, yet, still lie to the only people I care about?"

Harry looked up after a few silent seconds between them, "I don't think this is going to work."

"It has to, because we're already buried in too deep," Draco replied, ignoring where Harry might have been going with the topic.

"No," Harry stressed, frustrated, and then glanced at him. "I think I need to do this by myself."

"How is it that you're the proclaimed, praised, brave Boy-Who-Lived if you go running every damn time we piss each other off?"

"It has nothing to do with you, believe it or not."

"Lie," Draco informed him, easily. Harry was looking at the floor, seeming very deep in his thoughts, with his hands on his sides. "What is wrong with you? You know I'm in this. If you're so interested in being gay, fucking be it, I don't care, okay? Are you listening? I don't care!"

Harry looked up at him, blankly, and quietly murmured, "Don't you?"

Draco stared at him for a long moment, his eyes furious. IMPOSSIBLE! Instead of saying anything else to Harry—Or Judas—or whoever the bloody twit was more pulled to, at that moment, he pivoted on his heel. Fuck it, he wasn't going to waste more time trying to convince Harry that he had to trust Draco. It was clear that Harry's involvement with Draco had nothing to do with any sort of loyalty. But, fuming, with thoughts clubbing over his mind, he spun around, again, about a hallway opposite of Harry, "Why are you so interested in my sexuality, anyway? Is that somehow tied into this? Here's a better question for you, because I won't pretend that it hasn't crossed my mind—how do I even know that you're not here to use me. I mean, how do I know, for fact, that you are who you say you are, or you aren't who you say you are! For all I fucking know, you're a Death Eater trying to recruit me! You're not telling me anything, and if you're done with me, mother fucker, fine—"

"Draco, fucking shut up," Harry demanded from down the hall, rubbing his hand over his head. "I'm not lying."

"Says you, king of the liars."

Harry snorted a frustrated laugh, "What is it that you so desperately need to know anyway, Malfoy?"

"Tell me where my father is, for one thing."

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, hard, his eyes hardening, "In the dining room, isn't he? Last I saw..."

"Okay, I see," Draco hit back at him, and turned away, too, walking away very annoyed and with a sneer. "Whatever you decide to do, let me know when you find the time."

Harry started to follow in the same direction, his eyes beginning to squint, "What was that? Finding the time for you?"

Draco turned around, again, and threw his hands out with a shallow growl, "You're trying to instigate a fight, Potter! You've been trying to do it from the moment you stepped your bloody savior-shoed foot into my house!" Draco shouted at him, finally. He had never shouted at Harry Potter. He mostly muttered _Potter_ under his breath, but everything else had come out highly elevated and agitated. When Harry didn't answer, but rather stopped and put his hands out as if he had no idea what Draco was talking about, Draco threw his right hand up and then his middle finger. "You have. I could never fucking stand you, and I can't fucking stand who you're playing now! I hate it—I hate the stupid Judas Cliffdale that you are—you know, its your mask, whatever, but I know who you are! Just act like who you are, god damn—"

"I can't act like..."

Draco clenched his jaw, as he and Harry met in the center of the hallway, "Act like... who? Who_ are_ you?"

Harry rubbed his hand, tensely, over the back of his head, very pointedly glaring, "I'm Judas Cliffdale?"

Fine! Draco nodded his head, "All right, that's it. You've made your decision. If you're going to be Judas Cliffdale, completely, then don't address me as Malfoy, ever. It's Draco, thanks. I don't want to deal with any more shit from the past—not talk about Quidditch skills, about Hogwarts, about Snape, about Dumbledore—about fucking no one who Judas Cliffdale wouldn't know. You're not going to keep frustrating us both like this. You pick one character and you stick with it, got it?"

Harry's eyes were widened with surprise and a slight bit of amusement, "Sure?"

Draco took the opportunity to shove Harry, hard, before he turned around, "Next time we talk, I want answers."

"I already told you that I'm leaving."

A few seconds later, Harry was being chased down the hallway by a frustrated Draco who was bellowing about wanting to grab Harry's throat and choke him for a couple of seconds. No, no, Harry completely understood where Draco was coming from. But, what Draco didn't realize was that Harry wasn't sure, now, who he was. He hadn't a body, now. He was just a... spirit? A soul? He was Harry Potter, but he wasn't Harry Potter. He had all of these weird mood-changes. Sometimes he was sarcastic. Sometimes he was impossible. Sometimes he was a total and complete asshole. And, he knew it, but he usually didn't realize it had happened until after he had said what he had said, and most of these things had been said to Draco, which was obvious by the frustration that Draco was seething at him as Harry turned the corner of a hallway.

The chase seemed to stop, because Harry no longer heard Draco's footsteps in the hallway he had just exited.

Harry slid down against the wall, weak. He collapsed down on his butt and clasped his arms over his knees.

Draco turned the corner, but then jumped back, abruptly, startled at the presence of the floor. He rubbed his palms down over his light blue T-shirt, as if to smooth it out, though it wasn't wrinkled in the slightest bit. It was a nervous mechanism. He hadn't been expecting Harry to be sitting there, his head buried into his arms, his knees pulled all of the way up to his chest, his ankles crossed. His fingers were tensed, sticking out from over his arms, as if refusing to relax. He shifted, awkwardly.

Harry heard the small, obvious sigh. He didn't look up, "Go."

Draco stepped closer, his eyes brightening, "You're crying, aren't you?"

Harry didn't answer at first. Could Draco have possibly backed off? No. Did he have to ask? No! Could he have just turned around and walked away? Yes. Yes. There were probably hundreds of other hallways that Draco could walk and stalk, so why did he have to turn the corner after Harry? Harry hadn't had any time to process anything that had happened in the last three or four months. Once one situation happened, it was solved (most of the time), and before it could be analyzed, another situation had popped up, "Fucking Malfoy, get out of my bubble before I hex your face."

His bubble? "It's such a pretty face, though."

Harry clutched his hand over his eyes, against his arm. He said nothing, again.

Draco twisted at the silence, "I see that you've decided to call me Malfoy, which means you've violated our agreement."

Harry finally pulled his arms from his knees, not being able to take it, anymore. He couldn't take the whole, entire existence of Judas Cliffdale, anymore! It was too complicated! It wasn't easy! He was still trying to adjust to having a different body and learning how to chew differently! On top of that, he had to, basically, save their entire world. And, Draco's words were nothing but frustrations and annoyances to him, now. And, it wasn't that Draco didn't have anything important to say, it was that Harry had bigger issues to be concentrating on.

Draco watched as Harry slammed his hands into the wooden floor beneath him. He pushed himself up, furiously, hard. It was like he was some sort of heavy, metal machine. But, when Harry was finally in his face, about five seconds later, Draco couldn't find anything to say. Nothing, at all. He was speechless. Tears. Oh, no. No. No. Harry Potter was crying? But, nothing was said to him, as he stared at Harry, with his mouth slightly agape at the opposite expression. A crying, despaired, wrinkled-forehead, clumped-eyelashes Harry Potter—but, not Harry Potter! Fucking hell, "I _hate_ your stupid new face."

And, Harry gave the tiniest of laughs, exhausted and mentally broken. How random, "I'll be in my room for the rest of the day, if anyone asks."

Draco awkwardly stood there as Harry turned around, his hands rubbing up and down his face, "Do you want... no, nevermind."

"No," Harry answered, too. He was going to sleep. All day. As for wanting something, he wanted nothing but answers.

Draco watched Harry disappear around another corner. When he did, Draco finally let out his hold of breath.

But, Harry returned back to the hallway after a second or so.

Draco didn't ask him what he was doing. He just waited.

Harry frowned, distraught, "Not that it is any fault of yours, Malfoy, but you'd never know what its like to be me. You don't know what its like. And, how I got here," Harry quietly said and clasped his hands over his chest, as if to signify Judas's physical body, "is still a complete mystery to me. I'm trying to deal with being someone else—I'm trying to deal with that fact that a HUGE part of me is dead, literally. It's not as easy as you'd think, just switching..." bodies, but he couldn't say that because, well, if anyone was listening... Well, then, again, they hadn't exactly been keeping Harry's identity under wraps in the hallway. "I'm trying to cope with a lot of things. I don't know why I say things like I did back in the dining room. I did, and it was stupid, okay? But, I'm not _me_, anymore, and I'm trying to figure this all out. I'll be figuring it out all summer, here. And, I'll apologize, now, for any future episodes—like the ten or so that we usually have a day."

Draco stayed still, "Maybe you could explain it to me, better, when you're ready."

A small pause washed over them. Draco was looked over by Harry's impostor eyes.

"I will."

Draco was incredibly satisfied, but he didn't show it too much, "Do you want your breakfast sent up to your room?"

Harry couldn't help the small, crooked smile that he felt trigger on his mouth, "No, but that's lovely."

Draco squinted at him, again. Harry's nose scrunched, and another silence prevailed.

Sarcasm well noted. Harry looked apologetic, so Draco let it go, "Well, all right, then. I guess I'll... go back... to breakfast."

Harry's arms crossed over his chest, almost protectively, "Okay."

Draco, a little alarmed, for no particular reason, in a warm way, glanced back at Harry as he turned, "_Okay_."

This time, it was Draco who turned the corner, and Harry who started to smile, entertained by the awkward adieu.

Draco wondered back into the dining room to finish his breakfast with his family. His family. Family. Breakfast with his family. But... though he was grateful to have Cornwell and Dickie there, along with his mother, it didn't feel as wonderful as he would have thought it would. Lucius was missing, and Draco was confused about... well, everything, essentially. And, it was a bad time to be confused in their society. He could pick his shoe color. He could pick out what color robe he wanted to wear, but could he pick out if he wanted to start his breakfast with eggs or with bacon? No, no, because of that other presence in his house—namely Harry Potter.

One breakfast continued, when Draco returned, it was awkwardly silent, and not in the way it had always been.

But, after hearing Cornwell stutter sighs to himself, for the tenth time, Draco looked up, impatiently, "_What is it_?"

Cornwell had, apparently, been waiting for Draco to look up, now poking at his food, "Nothing."

Draco dead-panned at him, saying nothing.

Cornwell looked at Narcissa, and she looked back.

Draco looked at Dickie. Dickie immediately smiled at him, a cute little smile that scrunched up his cheeks. Draco returned the cheesiest, cheekiest smile he could muster. He even closed his eyes in the process, knowing full well, by the sound of the hysterical shriek of giggles from Dickie that took over the room, that he looked absolutely ridiculous, and for that fleeting moment in the living room, he didn't care. It was his mother, his father, and Dickie! Family! Yes, family! It was making sense. Family. He opened his eyes, again, and looked straight at Dickie, not being able to help his own laughter, "Are your eggs good?"

Dickie nodded and held up his silver-plated baby fork, proudly, "Yefs!" As if to prove he was telling the truth, he dug into his eggs with his small index finger and thumb, of his free hand, grabbed a scrambled piece and popped it into his mouth. He then sucked his cheeks in, his fingertip still in his mouth, his whole face scrunched with sweetness.

Draco snorted with laughter and disregarded his own fork, placing it down beside his plate. He began to lower his hand.

"Draco!" Narcissa shrilly drilled, under his breath.

Draco smirked, ignoring her. He picked up a piece of his eggs, too, and popped it into his mouth, his eyes widening.

Dickie giggled very loudly before he, once more, dug into his eggs, this time with his whole hand.

Draco grasped a hand of eggs, as well, and rested his elbow on the table, wiggling his hand at Dickie.

Dickie leaned forward, in his dark, glossy, engraved wooden high-chair, with his nose scrunched, "Nah-nice!"

Draco's left eyebrow rose, and he leaned over the table, too, pushing his plate aside, challengingly.

Dickie's eyes enlarged, and he, too, pushed his little plate aside and held up his eggs in the air, "Ohhh!"

"Ohhh!" Draco imitated him, trying to mold his face into the cute expression that Dickie was so preciously, innocently making. Dickie obviously knew that playing with his eggs was not a very mannerly thing to do, but he didn't seem to be worried. He looked at Cornwell, with sweet eyes and a sweet expression. Draco looked at him, too, because of this, with interested eyes. The only thing Cornwell was doing was smiling to himself, looking between them with his left eyebrow hooked up, expertly. Small dimples were even twitching.

"Don't do it, Dickie," Cornwell chuckled.

Narcissa let out a short little huff, though it sounded very sweet and innocent, like she was forcing it, "Come on, now, Cornwell, you're going to make him want to do it more!"

Cornwell looked at her, with a loud, doubtful, somewhat-annoyed laugh, "You haven't changed an ounce, I see. Do it, Dickie!"

"Cornwell!" But, Narcissa's shriek of disapproval was too late.

Draco watched, in awe, as Dickie cutely threw his eggs, aiming right for his older brother across the table.

Draco instantly reacted, releasing every last bit of his eggs across the table, lightly, until they splattered over Dickie.

Dickie's laughter silenced the room's proper atmosphere, until they were all snickering.

From then on until the end of breakfast, all Draco had to do was look at Dickie to get him to hysterically laugh.

For the majority of the morning and into the early noon, Harry did nothing but lay back in his bed. His eyes stared idly at the ceiling, his linked hands usually cupping the back of his head against the pillows. His ankles crossed and uncrossed every once in awhile. A few times he even shifted his hips or dropped a heavy heel down onto the mattress just to make sure he was still alive. He had anticipated having many things to worry and fret about, as he had been for the last few days, but nothing had started to fill him with anguish. Half of him didn't move just for the sole fact that if he moved, there was a chance he would be plagued with the worries and stresses he didn't want to face.

He was getting peace, laying in the light-filled room, listening to the birds happily chirping outside the open windows.

"Bitch, this is a stick up!"

Harry haggled and tumbled off the left side of his huge bed.

Draco, who was sitting outside Harry's window on a broomstick, howled with laughter, "Hahahaha!"

Harry scrambled to his knees, his elbows and arms above the neat covers he had just superbly indented with wrinkles. He pulled himself right up until his eyes were peaking out over the top of the bed. Outside of the window, Draco, with the sun behind his frame, was covering his mouth with one hand and his stomach with the other. Successfully, Harry pushed himself up, scowling to hide his embarrassment. He started around the end of the bed to get to the large, open, arch-way windows, "Son of a bitch, you are! I should—"

"You coulda-wouda-shoulda _nothing_!" Draco immediately interrupted him, resting against the side of the huge, open window-frame. He leaned in against the thick windowsill with his upper body, confident in his balancing abilities, not threatened by the notion of Harry approaching him, because it was without malice. "Honestly, your reflexes could use some work."

Harry rested his hands down on the window ledge and tensed his shoulders, looking at Draco, "I should push you."

"Er, no, I don't think that would be a good idea," Draco deterred this, easily. "Moving on, grab your broom, we're flying."

Harry chuckled, pushing himself back and away from the window, "I'm not flying, not today. I have a lot on my mind."

As Harry backed further and further away from the window edge, Draco knew it was going to take some convincing and coaxing to get Harry to lighten up for the afternoon, or at least for a few minutes. He rose up about three inches, on his broom, "If you must know, I wanted you to see all of the press lined up outside of the front gates. It is _madness_, right now."

Harry tilted his head, stopped, as Draco's head disappeared above the window, so Harry could only see his body, "What're you doing?" But, it was then that Draco slipped off of his broom, crouched slightly-down into the tall archway, and then hopped down onto the ground of Harry's bedroom floor without so much as a skipped flaw. "Done this before, have you?"

Draco grabbed his still-levitated broom outside of the window and pulled it inside. He rested it against the wall by the window, vertical, "Yeah, I perfected it at Hogwarts fifth year. Part of Dumbledore's genius, I suppose, or his idiocy, allowing for the windows to be open at night, like students wouldn't sneak out on broom—kind of a dumb bloke sometimes, isn't he?" But, before Harry could respond, Draco held up his left hand. "Forget I asked, spare me the lecture."

Harry did laugh as he sat himself down on the edge of his bed, crossing his arms over his chest, "Madness?"

Draco simply nodded, picking up an old granite paper-weight from Harry's wooden desk. He tossed it up into the air a couple of inches and caught it, again. He had always liked the feel of polished granite. It was heavy and cold, and it packed a great deal of power when held in hand. He placed the paper-weight back down and, instead, turned his attention to the open notebook on the desk, "Spare bit of writing? A journal, perhaps?"

"Or, perhaps not," Harry returned right away. He picked up his wand from his bedside table and pointed it at his journal.

Draco, who was lowering his head to read the journal, nosily, yet still openly, jumped back as the book slammed to a close. He turned around with a small smile, "Okay, then, what is it? Love letters to Weasley?" Harry glared in return. But, Draco felt too delighted to let it affect him. "Come on, admit it, you're starting to like the sexual banter. I'm gay, you're gay. I'm not gay, you're not gay. We're humans, boys kissing boys is hot, and I wear eyeliner—it's fun, isn't it? In a twisted, it's-good-to-be-the-youth-of-today sort of way—don't look at me like that, I'm saying this for the benefit of your entire existence."

Harry just laughed as he looked down at the floor, shaking his head, "You're something else."

"I know," Draco agreed, confidently, but without arrogance, as he stood in front of Harry. "And, you're someone else."

Harry's eyes rose, warningly, and he squinted at Draco as if to tell him not to bring it up, again, "I'm tired."

"I know I'm supposed to take that as my cue to leave—albeit without you."

"Wow, you're astonishingly quick," Harry easily chimed back at him, with bright eyes, rubbing his chin with his palm.

Draco watched him, though hesitant to do so when he was so obviously intending to, and Harry knew it, "Suppose I do leave you a lone for the rest of the afternoon..." He had Harry's attention. It was slightly hopeful, but Draco couldn't tell if it was a forced look or not. In some strange way, Draco knew that part of Harry wasn't against going out and flying. He just had a lot to do, otherwise, like he always had. Harry had always repressed and sacrificed certain wants and desires for the good of other people.

Draco didn't always approve, and not because he was evil, but because Harry needed to put number one, first, once in awhile. He itched at the corner of his mouth and started all over again, "Suppose I do leave you alone for the rest of the afternoon, what would you be doing? Would you be laying here, on your bed, staring up at the ceilings and trying to balance your personal check-list book in your head?"

"Regardless of what you may believe, I don't always think about my next heroic action-sequence. Don't be dense."

"I was actually referring to the emotional strain that your hero-complex has placed on your shoulders..."

Harry laughed, nodding his head once as if he should have known, "I don't know what I'd do, Malfoy. There."

Okay. Draco followed him, though at a distance, toward a small sitting area, "What do you_ think_ you'd be doing?"

Harry turned around, stopped, with a grin, "Wanking."

Draco's lips twisted, "I'm sorry, I don't like to use that word when regarding the savior of my people."

"_The savior of your people_?" Harry questioned this, very loudly, appalled but still, somehow amused. "You're mad."

Draco smiled, watching as Harry turned away, mumbling incoherently to himself about something, shaking his head from side to side. He had his back complete turned, but Draco could see that Harry's upper body was shaking with laughter. Good, that was all he wanted. He knew Harry hated being called savior. It was obvious. When he heard it, he got angry. He had never had an over inflated ego, it seemed, when people flat out called him a savior, and always having used it in a negative way to his face, or even about him in the press. Being a savior was nothing Harry was interested in. Draco got it, but, somehow, when Draco now called Harry savior, or commented on it, Harry didn't become angry or defensive. He just laughed.

Because, now, it was in jest. And, now... everything was different. Everything was changing.

The dynamic of their relationship had done a complete one-eighty.

Harry turned around, abruptly, and pointed at Draco, suspiciously, "You're right, I would just lay in bed and torture myself."

"Naturally," Draco responded, nonchalantly. But, Harry frowned. "Oh, come on. Your nature is to self-destruct."

"It is not."

"Ohhh," Draco returned, in a child-like voice, pretending to have been shown in his error. "Don't deny it—you've been a brooding, dark, self-anguished moody son-of-a—er, nevermind that part, you're too... _vulnerable_ for that sort of insult right now, yes?"

"Oh, silly Malfoy," Harry returned, grabbing his broom from the floor at the end of his bed.

All right, so Draco was right. It was in Harry's nature to worry. It was his nature to torture himself over the past—which, he frequently forgot to remind himself, was impossible to change. Whatever was going to happen, was just going to have to happen. Until then, Harry needed to... take a break from being Harry. He could. He had that chance, at least for the remainder of the summer. His real mission and challenge started at the beginning of the seventh year term. The summer was just the preparations and safe-keep of the whole plan. He had the chance to just... be. He stopped in front of Draco, with a huge smile, and grasped the broad-enough shoulder opposite of him with his free hand. "You just passed up a mother-joke. I think I'm proud of you."

Draco grasped Harry's cheek, faking the same mockingly lovey-dovey voice, "Don't get used to it, _dear_ hero."

Harry closed his eyes, as if heartbroken, and turned his head away and downward. He sniffled, loudly, dramatically, "Leave me."

Draco stroked his index fingertip down Harry's cheekbone, with an indignant huff. It danced down beneath Harry's chin, easily, like a small brushing paintbrush. He took his time, drawing it out. It wasn't too incredibly awkward, actually. He had nice skin—well, Judas did, though Harry had always had flawless skin. He was... sort of silky—mostly the work of years of excessive facial pampering and so on, Draco knew. Massages, facials, spa-treatments, Judas had had them all. Such... toned, vibrant skin. He stopped thinking these things when his index finger dipped under Harry's chin, bent, and he nudged Harry's chin upward, "_Never_."

Harry blinked.

Draco didn't blink. Fuck, he _couldn't_ blink, not even if he wanted to. He could hardly even _breathe_.

Harry could feel a very warm flush beginning to rise up his throat, from his heart. What had started as a small little game of... well, a pair of old movie-stars in a really dramatic film, had ended with them being way too close and way too open to each other. He hadn't meant for his face to be so close to Draco's. But, when Draco had tilted his chin upward, again, it had been pulled closer just by the new angle. The closeness, therefore, was closeness they had never, ever shared—not this way, with two pairs of stunned, confused, pondering eyes. How had they gotten so close? Why was the moment so quiet? Honest? Why was there a soft spark between Draco's fingertip and Harry's finely-tended-to skin?

And, why had Draco's answer sounded so much less dramatic than it had been intended? It had sounded very heartfelt.

Draco didn't know what to do. He didn't easily freeze in these sort of situations.

Harry, of course, was never in these sort of situations—especially not ones with boys, much-less with a former foe!

Draco fought very hard with himself, but then immediately pulled his eyes away and awkwardly stepped aside, "Heh."

Harry lifted his left hand up to his own neck. He didn't know how it had acted so quickly on its own merit. It had a mission, and Harry didn't know what it was! Hey, what was going on? His hand clasped right around Draco's, just as it started to pull away from where it had been still resting under the tip of his angular chin. In result of the hand-grab, Draco, who had been pulling himself away even further, in silence, was stopped, though he kept his back turned. This gave Harry the advantage, watching as Draco lowered his head, as if he were caught.

Well, technically he was caught. In Harry—or, er, Harry's hand, at least.

Harry was grinning before he could help it, and he tugged, hard.

The force of the tug was easy to avoid. The pain, however, was not. Draco immediately turned inward, to Harry, "What?"

Harry just... started... laughing... because... it was... something... now funny? "Do you use lotion?"

Draco's expression washed over with disgusted disbelief, "What?"

Harry wasn't phased, especially because Draco was too terrified to pull his hand away, "Your hands, they're soft."

Draco felt sick.

Harry smiled, once. His smile faded, and he quickly dropped Draco's hand. He slid back, as if he were suddenly hit by a canon in the stomach. He just didn't know what to do with himself. He held his hands away from his body, as if they were not his own. Something had just flickered off inside of him, like some kind of damn switch! It had started off innocent! But, no! No, and... and... and... but... he had been complimenting the softness of Malfoy's hands! HANDS! SOFTNESS! MALFOY! Just... no! Oh, no. No, no, no. He shook his hands in the air, as if to debug them, "Ah! Ah! Ahhhhhh!"

Draco watched it unfold, still perfectly frozen to the floor. He wanted to be invisible! He and Potter had shared a moment!

One that mentioned the softness of hands—was that a friendly compliment? WELL, WAS IT? WHAT DID NORMAL BOY-FRIENDS TALK ABOUT? Did they compliment each other on hand-softness? Draco had never had normal friends like Potter did! It didn't seem normal! Oh, it was just so horrible! So horrible. This was Potter, here! Draco Malfoy's hand had been held by Harry Potter's, and not in a hand-shake! Okay, not that it had been horrible—but, it had lingered. There had been eye-contact... and... and... and... words... and... _Leave me. Never!_

A few seconds later, they were both completely silent, staring at each other.

It was Harry who finally broke the silence, grimacing fully, "We'll never speak of this ever again."

"Yes, never again."

"Ever—"

"NEVER EVER!"

Harry walked toward the window, clutching his broom in his left hand, "Settled, then—where to, Malfoy?"

Draco followed him, keeping a very large distance. Harry seemed to be eager to jump out the window—perhaps, Draco wondered, if Harry wouldn't mind missing his broomstick and plummeting to the earth to forget what had just happened—DAMNIT. He growled in his head, thrashing around with his awkwardness. He tried to clear his head, but all he could muster for an answer was, "I don't use lotion—"

Harry spun around, "Don't!"

"But. I just need to make it clear that—"

"Don't! Stop!" Harry cut him off.

"But—" _DAMN YOU, POTTER! LET ME SPEAK!_

"Ssshhh, psht, putt, doot, Pufflyflit, shishkabob, super-duper, SSSHHH. HUSH, SHUSH, never EVER, EVER." _NO SPEAKING, MALFOY! Quiet! JUST SSSSHHH!_

Draco's left hand clasped over the back of his head, and he squeezed, looking away from Harry, immediately.

Harry sighed, appreciatively, "Where are we going?" Nowhere. Draco was going to bail.

Draco stayed silent.

Harry still couldn't bring himself to be within five feet of Draco. Again, he repeated, "Where are we going?"

Draco walked to the window and grabbed his broom, "I've just remembered, I have something to do." Er, it was called going to the nearest pub, or Lucius's bar in one of the studies, and having himself a few drinks—a few meaning just enough to get him hammered and erase the events of the afternoon. His teeth were tensed together, very tightly, so his jaws were hurting. He walked toward Harry's bedroom door, quickly, without another glance to the room's other occupant.

For once, Draco was sure there would be no bantering about who was a coward. Neither wanted to relive or discuss it.

At the door, Draco turned around, pinching his own side to stabilize the moment, "..."

Harry looked back at him and had the same thing to say, before he turned his back with his hands squeezing his sides.

Draco opened the door, very slowly, walked out, and closed the door behind him. Oh, God.

Harry tried to deny his appetite for most of the day, having missed breakfast and refusing to attend lunch. He had knocked himself out with a small sleeping spell for a good two hours. He had not wanted to see anyone—least of all Draco, and he wondered if Draco had even skipped lunch for the sole reason of not wanting to see Harry. Of course, Harry knew that maybe he was only being immature and self-centered and that there was a chance that Draco wasn't acting the same way. After all, it was his home—he knew the places he could go that Harry would not find him.

But, by the time eight o'clock rolled around, Harry was hungry and his stomach was growling. A house-elf had tried to shake him out of his deep sleep, but Harry had told her to bugger off. She hadn't taken offense, rather sighed and just mumbled something about boys getting their sleep. Oh, if only she had known! Such sleep that Harry desired! If such sleep were possible by itself, he would have been taking advantage of it. But, no, not such sleep came easily. He kept tossing a turning, even with his sleeping spell.

Harry trudged down the front entry-hall steps, drowsy. He stopped, though halfway down.

Walking toward the door under the grand stairwell was a group of about six boys his age and four girls. He had never seen them, before. Amongst them was Draco, who didn't appear to need to lead these people anywhere. They seemed to know exactly where they were going. They were definitely not from Hogwarts, no. They were a good-looking bunch, and as Harry examined them, with weakly aware eyes, he remembered that he had, indeed, seen at least two or three of them, before. And, if he didn't remember them by their actual faces, he remembered their clothing. He frowned to himself, hoping they didn't see him.

But, Draco looked up, out of instinct. His friends' eyes followed.

Harry looked back at them, all, out of curiosity. He was caught, however, though, so he forced a smile, "'ello."

Draco wanted to keep walking, but the group stopped. He forced his feet to stay still, though it was hard.

Harry trotted down the rest of the steps. When he reached the bottom, he just stood there, awkwardly, and didn't approach them. He didn't want to. He didn't want to approach Draco. These were Draco's friends. With bright clothing. And... stuff. He itched at the back of his neck, tired. Because Draco was in the back of the group, Harry couldn't see him, and, therefore, wasn't overwhelmed by the complete urge to slap himself with shame over what had happened. He was so hungry that his nervousness about even being within viewing range of Draco came second. He settled on a friendly smile to the group, "Well, uh, nice to see you all, again."

Draco stepped out about a foot behind the group, to the side, as Harry began walking toward a hallway.

He wasn't wearing socks. Or a shirt. All he was wearing was a pair of low-rising gray pajama pants. Draco scowled. And, who gave him permission to be all... shirtless? For God's sake, if his mother saw Harry, she'd probably turn bright red. It was just proper attire to wear robes around the house, and he had been wearing sweatshirts and T-shirts for the most part since he had arrived. It was hard enough for his mother to accept Draco as wearing just T-shirts and trousers around the house, but now she had to deal with Harry fucking Potter walking around shirtless—SHIRTLESS! Without shoes! And, his voice being all rough and thick with sleep—and all of that other, in-some-warped-adorable way—no!

"Judas," spoke up one of Draco's friends, from beside him.

Harry stopped, cold, hugging his arms over his bare chest. Why was he a dumb-ass AND shirtless? He turned, "Er, yes?"

Draco immediately flickered his eyes away, to his friend, blankly, trying to mentally plead against what was coming.

"Why don't you come and join us in Draco's study?"

"No," Draco immediately answered, glancing back at Harry. He felt queasy, so he looked away. "Judas is busy."

Harry motioned to Draco, though not looking at him, not even for a millisecond, "I really am," he answered, though with a very bland, even tone of voice. He was bored with Draco's friends. He was annoyed. All he wanted was to get a bite to eat, and then return to his room to... well, do something. Maybe he'd read the newspaper or go flying around the Malfoy estate just for the sake of exploring. Yes, a plan. He put his hand up in the air for about two seconds, as if to wave. "Some other time."

Though Harry continued to walk one way, and Draco toward the other, two of his friends stayed put, "But, I thought you—"

Harry turned around, "Prize friends, Draco, ones that read the tabloids. Good for you."

"Shut up," Draco spat across the huge entry hall, from the doors under the stairwell. "At least I _have_ friends."

"You're right, I have no friends," Harry agreed, pushing his back into the doorway. He didn't want to continue the conversation. Instead of doing anything else to make the situation between he and Draco anymore awkward or unnerving, he descended upon the hallway opposite of the doors he had pushed himself through. He was on his way to the kitchens. Maybe he could get someone to cook him up a little something. And, if no one wanted to, he would ask if it would be okay for him to cook up a grilled-cheese sandwich or something... simple. Because, well, he sucked at cooking anything other than garlic bread, grilled cheese sandwiches and boxed pasta.

The kitchen was a warm, lovely, sparkling place. The colors were warm oranges, browns and tans. It felt homey.

There was no one in the kitchen. No one! He opened up the enchanted cooler-box, curious as to see if there was anything he could help himself to. But, it only seemed that the food in there was food prepared for the next day. With a discouraged frown and a forehead wrinkle, Harry let the door close, disappointed. He did have some sweets up in his trunk, but sweets weren't a meal, and he was really in the mood for something juicy and something hearty. Anything would work, really, as long as it filled up his belly. Bread, actually, sounded the best to him. Bread, with a side of... more bread.

"Oh, sir! Can I fix you up something?"

Harry turned around and looked down to see an elderly, but sweet-faced, house-elf. He grinned, "You don't have to."

The house-elf placed her fists on her sides and looked him over, as if teasingly, "Don't sound so sure of yourself."

Harry chuckled, a little embarrassed for himself, "No, really. I stupidly missed breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner. I was just coming to see if there were any leftovers or whatnot—but, no, no, you don't have to fix me anything. I'd be more than willing to do it, myself." He looked around the kitchen, in a bit of distress. "I just can't seem to locate where... the... actual... food _is_."

The house-elf laughed, "In the cupboard, dear, just over to your left."

Harry turned to his left. There was nothing there. He looked back at her with skeptical eyes, "Are you pulling my leg?"

"Oh, I've forgotten!" She suddenly chimed in, a bit too chirpy. "We hide it at the end of the night, the cupboard."

And, she swished her hand.

Harry watched, in awe, as the appearance of a plain dark orange wall vanished and a cupboard appeared over it, "Wow, that's impressive," he offered, as he walked toward it. The doors were gigantic, reaching as tall as the high ceiling of the kitchen. They were also very wide. He reached out to the handle and pushed it aside. It slid, easily, until it disappeared into the wall. His jaw dropped and his eyes were forced upward, in awe of the sight before him. There were, literally, little ladders, like book-shelf ladders, all of the way up the wall. The house-elves must have used them to get the food on top. He looked down at the bottom of the ladder. "Wheels, too!"

"They don't squeak, either! Master Malfoy greases the track for us and replaces the wheels often."

Harry looked back at her, "Lucius Malfoy greases the tracks? I... find that strangely unbelievable."

"Oh, no, not older Master Malfoy. Young Master."

Harry's eyes, that had been eyeing some cheese-flavored crackers, immediately looked back at her, again, "_Draco_?"

The elf nodded, eagerly, "I'd love to whip you up something!"

Harry grinned at her, "No, that's quite all right, but do you think I could snag these crackers?" Mmm, cheese.

"Absolutely, sir! Yes, sir!"

Harry took the orange box from inside of the cupboard before he stepped back, once more, still taken in awe by the display of food before him. So much food for so few people! This must have been the stock for months and months! There were rows and columns of the same kinds of food, lined up so perfectly. Any grocer would have hired such an organized worker for twice the normal wage. It was so lovely! Flawless, really! He turned to look at the house-elf beside him, with a thankful smile and happily sleepy eyes, "By the way, I'm Judas." And, he stuck his hand out.

The elf blinked, "Sir, I know who you are."

Harry wiggled his fingers, "You're not going to shake my hand?"

"Sir, I'm not supposed to shake hands with—"

Harry rolled his eyes, "I won't tell, you have my word. Come on, I don't bite."

She took his hand, though very hesitantly.

Harry shook it, firmly, with a wide grin, bent down a small bit, "You do have a name, don't you?"

"Oh, my manners! I'm Flora."

Harry nodded, "Nice to meet you, Flora. And, thank-you so much for my cheese crackers." Really, they would hit the spot, he was sure. They seemed like the perfect food for him to shove into his mouth until they were gone. He never was good at stopping himself on a box of cheese-crackers. Though, to his fortunate discovery, the box wasn't completely full, which meant he wouldn't be downing a whole box, which was nice, because he felt better about himself if he didn't down a whole box of cheese crackers over DRACO MALFOY!

But, a half of a box? Not quite as pathetic.

Harry gave Flora another grin once he turned to leave.

"Oh, Mister Cliffdale, sir?"

Harry turned around, the box in his left arm, with right hand already crinkling in the plastic cracker bag, "Yes, hmm?"

"If you want to come down in the future and have a snack, the password to the cupboard is Pufflyflit, sir."

Harry popped a cracker into his mouth. He didn't answer her at first, just gave a small, disillusioned, amused giggle, "Excellent."

By ten, Harry had eaten his box of crackers, though his covers undeniably shared in some of the crumbs. He was sure he would hear about it the next day from one of the house-elves. He didn't mind. He liked talking to them. They weren't supposed to be seen, sure, but if he was laying in bed and refused for them to leave so they could clean, they would be forced to talk to him. Good folks, house-elves, "Yes, good folks."

Harry slept another hour or two. When he woke up, he was fully refreshed, which was miserable, because he wanted to fall right back to sleep, just so when he next woke up, it would be a brand-new day. With a check to the clock hovering above his bedside table, he learned that it was, indeed, the next day. It was half past twelve, and his windows were still open. It was chilly in the room, now. He pushed himself up, though he was still slightly dazed, and he walked to the windows. He closed them, one by one.

There was not much to do in his room.

It was time, now, to wander out of his room and brave the new day. This time, with a shirt and socks—it was cold!

Harry was snuggled in his own arms when he approached Draco's study. He hadn't ever heard of this study, before. In fact, he didn't even know if it was Draco's study. All he knew was that he could hear music coming from one of the rooms in the hallway he was in, on the main downstairs floor of the state home. He didn't know what to think. He didn't even know why he was looking for Draco and his friends. He certainly didn't want to spy on them or be nosy. Then, again, the offer had been up in the air for Harry to join the... er, party or get-together—or whatever it was that they were having.

When Harry reached the door, he listened closely, carefully, for the sounds of a good time.

No, it was mostly quiet. And, anyway, it was impossible to hear conversations, because the music was on. He debated about whether or not to turn around and find some other place to explore. But, the music was so good. It was catchy. And, fast. And, something about a Mister Lightside? Coming out of a closet? No? A cage? No... he wasn't sure. It was all muffled. He frowned, staring down at the doorknob, chewing on the corner of his mouth.

He could peak, right? And, if they saw him, he would join them. If not, even better!

Harry gave in to the temptation and wrapped his left hand around the doorknob. He turned it as quietly as he could, nervous about what was going to happen. What if they all looked at him? What if they were all watching the door handle turn? Screw it, he was fretting too much. He stressed out way too much about the stupidest, most pointless things. Sometimes, he could be so laid back and carefree, and other times, he was a very tense fellow. His eyes came up from the floor as he put a crack in the door at first. But, nothing bad seemed to happen, so he opened it a couple of more inches, and then a couple of more.

It was dark. The only light on was one above an extravagant desk in the back of the room.

There was a lounge area. Half of Draco's friends seemed to be passed out. Two of them were making out. Another two of them were doing other shit, that Harry thankfully couldn't see, on a couch that had its backside to Harry. He opened the door even more, curious as to this arrangement of friends. Hmm, such a lovely, promiscuous group, were they? He was just bitter, that was all. He stood so his left shoulder was between the door-frame and the door, and then he rested so half of him was inside of the room and the other half was outside of the room.

Where was Draco, anyway?

Harry's eyes surveyed the room, again. Had Draco bailed on his own get-together? Strange. Shrugging, still full on dreams and fogginess, as well as the acknowledgment of delicious cheese crackers settled in his stomach, he stood up more straight. In the process, the door opened a little wider, and a sliver of the room that Harry hadn't noticed, before, was visible. As he went to shimmy out of the room, just as silently as he had entered, he caught sight of a white tint in the darkness. Oh, no. He leaned into the room, a bit more, with curious eyes. Malfoy! Oh, GOD!

_My eyes! My eyes! My..._

Harry stood up completely straight, with parted, almost stunningly rejected lips. His hands fell from the doorknobs, in shock. He wasn't too far away from the scene in front of him. Malfoy's back was to him—a fully clothed back, yes. Wow, he was into it. Harry tilted his head, with interest. He couldn't help it! A small part of him felt proud—PROUD of Malfoy! Malfoy hooking up with a woman! Nice! But... Harry squinted, and he glanced back to the rest of the room. He felt his stomach drop into a deep, dark, huge abyss of disbelief.

The four females were all currently passed out or preoccupied with drunkenness they'd probably regret the next morning.

Harry's eyes shot back to Draco. Whatever the kisses were, between Draco and whoever he was with, they were deep and slow. Perhaps, as Harry stood there, he wondered if another girl had shown up. He wasn't being stupid. He just didn't want to believe what he was witnessing. There, against a wall, in the darkest corner of the room, yet closest to Harry's best and easiest view, was Draco Malfoy, and as Draco's head tilted to the right, the face hidden was finally viewable.

Harry's mouth was agape. It was, indeed, a boy. The one who had asked Harry to join them. Oh, Merlin.

With his eyes now adjusted to the dark of the room, he could see just how passionate the exchange was. Their mouths were moving very slowly, deeply, and Draco's cheeks were sucked in and so well-defined. The eyes of the other guy were closed, and that was really all Harry could see of their expressions. But, he could see their mouths. It was full of deep catches and throaty, unthreatening, strange groans—nearly moans of delight. And, Draco was being somewhat held, though it did look a little awkward, even to Harry, from the outside, but Draco didn't seem to mind, as his fingertips were stroking and caressing down, what seemed to be, a very pale face—wait, wait, wait!

Harry was watching Draco's make-out session. WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH HIM?

But, Harry had no time to shoo himself out.

Because, the situation between Draco and his friend—er, whoever he was—quickly escalated.

Harry felt his heart stop as they landed against the wall about five feet to his left. He prayed to God that he was invisible, and they were too enthralled in each other to notice that he was there. Oh, would that have been awkward. But, he breathed with silent relief because neither pair of eyes opened or wandered to him. No, no, instead, Draco was pinned up against the wall, with a small thump, and the kisses seemed to turn very hard, almost... needy. Desperate. Needy. Desperate. Er, maybe a little clingy—okay, so they were clinging to each other.

They moved from the wall to a couch, on which the brunette fell to a sitting position, and Draco went down with him.

Harry gasped, in horror of what he was witnessing, not having realized how long he had been standing there.

He exited the room just in time to see Draco's bleary, intense, glazed eyes open and land, though unfocused and completely obviously... on... him, at the door.

Oh, fuck! Harry did the only logical thing. He wrapped both of his hands around the door handle and pulled, hard.

Not even five seconds later, a hard tug came from the other side of the door.

It budged a little.

Draco stepped backward and released the door handle, his hand in mid-air as if it had been burned. His brain had never been so silent. The room had never been so deadened.

Harry was horrified, standing there and realizing he was holding the door closed so Draco couldn't get out. It was bad. It was so bad. But, why was it bad? Oh, it was weird. Weird was a better word. Strange? No, not strange. Terribly humiliating? No, because Harry wasn't humiliated or embarrassed. He hadn't stood there, purposely, just to watch for the sake of watching. He had just been frozen to the floor. He, also, didn't want to see Draco. He didn't want to hear anything from Draco. He just... wanted nothing to do with Draco, that night. But, if he wouldn't have held the door closed in the hallway, Draco would have been able to open the door and see Harry in the hallway.

The hallway was long. There would have been no way Harry could have escaped.

Harry's thoughts, now centered on other things for one very unfortunate, fleeting moment, were the end of him.

Draco had chosen that very moment to tug on the door-handle, again, whereas Harry hadn't been prepared.

So, the door swung open in Draco's direction, with Harry's hands still on the door-handle.

Harry immediately jumped back, away from the divider that was the door-frame. He shoved his hands into his pockets as fast as he could. He had never felt more awkward than he did, standing there, across from a swollen-lipped, flustered, messy-headed, glassy-eyed Draco Malfoy and the brunette who was standing somewhat behind him, looking just as flustered and blank. They were staring at him. But, he quickly cleared his throat and went to say something.

Words failed him, as did all twenty-six letters of the alphabet. He had absolutely no idea what to say. At all.

"Oh, JUDAS! MAN, I knew you'd show! Someone get him a beer!"

Harry looked away from the two thin-framed same-aged wizards in front of him. He just didn't know what to do with himself. His eyes settled onto the direction where the comment had come from. It was one of the girls, on the couch, making out with some other guy. From where he stood, she seemed to be in the midst of... something... very... not appropriate for how gutted Harry was already feeling. His eyebrows narrowed, though he didn't know why. It seemed that everyone, at the loud slams of the door the few seconds before, had turned their attention to the door, to Draco and Harry—and, to what's his face—Draco's lover man-boy-wizard-dude-man-guy... male.

Harry managed a weak, though horribly and obvious forced, smile, "S'all-right, I was just on my way to bed."

"Oh," came the disappointed response, "okay, but cheers, mate!"

Harry just gave them all a wide-eyed, smirking grin, "Cheers, kids... er, goodnight." He turned, immediately, awkwardly, his hands forming into fists in his pockets. He couldn't believe it! Draco had been lying to him! _I'm not gay!_ Blah, blah, blah, blah! Full of shit! How did he expect Harry to trust him when all he did was lie? If he was lying about something like that, was else was he lying about? And, how had Harry felt that Draco was genuine enough to tell the truth to, and all he got, in return, was a bunch of lies? Of course, Draco's sexuality was really none of Harry's business, but... with the progression of their friendship or relationship or whatever it was... certain things just should have been mentioned—like the fact that Draco was a flaming fruit who was passionately attached to a brunette-headed rocker-man who definitely wore mascara—no one had eyelashes that long—JACKASS! Unbelievable!

His footsteps down the hallway were fast but quiet, because his blood was pounding in his ears.

"Wait a second."

Harry's blood boiled. He ignored Draco, who didn't sound far behind him. God, damn. Couldn't he catch a break?

Draco stopped, his vision foggy. He took the last sip out of his beer bottle, "Are you going to wait a second?"

But, Harry quietly opened the door at the end of the hallway, and closed it behind him, leaving Draco alone in the hallway.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Draco hissed, annoyed. He tossed his empty bottle onto the floor to his right and started down the hallway, pushing his hands up through his hair, from the back. He felt hot. He was wearing too many clothes for a summer night. He wasn't quite prepared to deal with anything making him follow Harry. In fact, he wasn't prepared to acknowledge what had happened in his study only minutes before. It had just happened. He was hammered off his ass. He had been vibing his friend, so he went for it. God, damnit, he wasn't supposed to go for it in the first place—much less have anyone see is—ESPECIALLY not Harry—and why?

Harry was different, that was why. Harry was Harry. Harry wasn't from Draco's world. He was... so many things, wasn't he? Indeed. He was. Harry was the one person he had always tried to level with, always fought with. He was the only person Draco had ever been offended and angry with based solely on the fact that Harry didn't approve of him or like him. No one else's opinion had ever mattered to Draco. When he had been insulted by most people, he brushed it off. It had never been like that with Harry. Ever.

But, Draco didn't have the brain function to begin clouding his buzzed high, so he let it go. He was drunk, and it was what it was. He opened the door at the end of the hallway, too, and stepped out. He looked to the right, immediately, to see that Harry was halfway up the steps, taking them rather slowly, "What'd you want me to say?"

Again, Harry only had one answer for him—and, it was complete silence.

Draco started for the bottom of the stairs, feeling agitated, "It's not what you think."

Harry seethed. _Tell me what else you think I think, Malfoy_. Aloud, once more, he said nothing at all, too angry to relay a sensible message.

Draco hurried up the first two steps, holding tightly to the rail, "Just say something so we can get this over with."

Harry turned around, a few steps from the top, "One more step, and I _will_ kill you. I hate liars, and you're a liar."

Draco stepped down a step, quickly, with an innocent acknowledgment of the threat, "I didn't lie."

"Go fuck off, Malfoy, before you pop your seems, and I don't want to see your face at all for the next few days. Trust me, you're not going to want to see mine." Harry hurried up the steps, furious. He had reason to be so angry! Draco had lied to him. All he had had to do was tell the truth. He didn't trust Harry enough to be honest. Harry wasn't going to return the favor like he had been doing.

"It's like you to go and ruin something so innocent and make it into a betrayal."

Harry turned around, again, but said nothing at all.

Draco's lips were moist and swollen and they felt upset, now, and tense, "I'd _never_ done that before."

"Whatever the case, you lied to me."

"I did not fucking _lie_," Draco returned, heatedly, and started up the stairs, not fearful of the consequences.

"Okay, so by telling me that you're not gay, you actually meant that you _are_ gay?"

"I told you I didn't know, and that wasn't a lie, and still don't know—"

"I think your pants would disagree."

"Fuck you, Harry. You have no reason to be mad at me."

Harry kept his distance as Draco joined him on the top of the stairs, "Don't call me Harry."

"Why not?" Draco asked, brazenly, and sighed, his hands clutching over his forehead, "Harry, Harry, Harry."

Harry blinked at him. Furious, he turned around and took off for his room, spewing evil thoughts of Draco.

Draco followed him, taking light, nearly musical, steps against the cold floor, "What's so wrong with you name?"

Harry turned around, "How about the fact that you just called me by _my name_?"

Draco blinked, heavily, "What?" Come on, it was too late. He was too tired. Too drunk. Too... come on, Potter. Do it.

Even more angry, now, that Draco didn't have any idea as to what Harry could have possibly been angry about, he couldn't just stand there and... he had too many things bustling through his mind, now. With people easily around to hear what was being said between them, and Draco saying _Harry_ rather loudly, it was not a good situation. If drunk Malfoy couldn't keep a handle on his alcohol consumption and was so obliterated that he started making out with boys, what else was he capable of doing—or, more importantly—_saying_, when all of his defenses were down? If Draco even told one person, it would get back to Voldemort. It just would.

"I never should have told you. I can't believe I was ever so stupid as to trust you with something so important."

Draco's eyes fell to the ground, sadly. His eyelids felt very heavy, and his body felt weak, "I didn't tell."

"You say it so childlike, like it's a secret you're going to be able to tell, like you want to tell. Do you _want_ to tell, Malfoy?"

"A little bit," Draco blurted out before he could think it over. This, of course, was a very bad thing to say.

Harry just backed away from him, frustrated and feeling like a huge idiot. Too upset with himself, for having been so idiotic to let Malfoy in on the plan, he turned around and started down the hall, again. He didn't stay silent on the inside, though he did on the outside. His mind was going a thousand miles an hour. He needed to do some revamping of his plans. He needed to begin to sort things out. Malfoy, now, appeared to be more of a liability than a benefit, which meant that Harry had to keep an extra eye on him. He couldn't just go and leave Malfoy in the cold. He couldn't go out and do it on his own, at least not yet. He needed to make sure that Draco could keep his mouth shut, and if he couldn't, Harry had no permission, but absolutely every resource and tool, to erase what he had told Draco from Draco's mind.

The further he walked down the hallway, the more intriguing the idea of wiping Draco out of the plan seemed to be.

Whereas Harry turned away and left the hallway, Draco sat down on the top step of the stairs and buried his head into his arms. Why was he so stupid sometimes? _So_ stupid.

The next morning, Draco knocked on Harry's bedroom door, weakly. He hadn't slept much the night before. He had done too much tossing and turning, knowing that what he had said to Harry should never have been said. He was still regretting it, as he knocked. He wouldn't lie, he was proud of himself for having the balls to knock on the door in the first place. When there was no answer, Draco frowned, "Can I come in?"

Harry, sitting at his desk, looked over in the direction of the door. But, he said nothing and looked back down at what he was working on. There were books sprawled all over the desk, most of which he had found in the various libraries on the Malfoy estate. He had put himself to work the night before, chalking everything up to one conclusion. He had to get moving on the situation, because the sooner it was all done and over with, or at least planned, the sooner Harry would be out of the Malfoy estate and, hopefully, back in his body. He had no guarantee of such a hope, but it was the only thing, it seemed, that was able to successfully keep him going.

Draco turned the doorknob, ignoring the lack of permission to enter the room. He peaked his head in.

Harry had heard the sound of the door opening. Annoyed, he placed his quill down and tilted his face up. He stared at the wall behind his desk, the dark wood polished and sparkling with a shiny, even slightly glossy, twinkles. He didn't want to look over at Draco. He just wanted to keep working, because his mind was clear, and things were making more sense. He was feeling more like himself, barricaded into a bedroom, working as hard as he could to figure out his next steps and plans of action. It was something that never failed to make him remember who he was—planning an adventure that never ended up coinciding with the schedules. No, no, never.

Draco stepped into the room and closed the door behind him quietly, "You weren't at breakfast."

Harry laughed, to spite himself. He was sure Draco didn't think it was a good-natured laugh, "What do you want?"

There was no immediate answer. Draco walked across the room, though rather slowly. He knew he had fucked up the night before. He was supposed to have been assuring Harry that his word was secret, but he hadn't given Harry that sort of answer. He did handle his alcohol well, in a physical sense, but the night before, he had been in a strange place, mentally. In a way, he had been warped. It had been a very confusing, frustrating, long night. He stopped, beside Harry's desk, to the right of it, and examined, silently, the mess of books, torn pages and the scribbling in Harry's journal which had been empty the day before, "What are you doing?"

Harry closed his journal and started to close the other books, not wanting to argue, "Work. Will that be all?"

Draco's hand grasped around one of the books. He looked at Harry, with angry eyes, "Where did you get this?"

"Lucius's library," Harry responded, ignoring the fact that Draco knew perfectly well what the book was. He stood up from his chair, scooting off of it to the left, opposite of Draco so that the chair was between them. He turned his back. If Draco wanted to go ahead and find out what Harry was going to do to him, Harry didn't care. He was going to do it no matter how much Draco protested or fought. Whatever the reaction was going to be, Harry knew it would be worth it in the long run. He had the weight of their world on his shoulders. He couldn't afford any extra mishaps or slip-ups in the long-run. He had to cut down the chance of error, and Draco's standing in the whole fib of a lie that Harry was living in was just one extra person knowing, which meant one whole person not-exempt from Voldemort and Veritaserum.

Draco leaned down and flipped open the leather-bound top of Harry's tan journal, dropping the book in his hand down onto the desk. It was a loud smack, but with the sound of Draco's fingertips ripping through the thick chunk of journal pages that had obviously been written the night before, the sound wasn't obnoxious or overbearing. His eyes stopped when he saw his name. His eyes flickered down the page to see why.

Harry watched him, his arms crossed over his chest.

Draco slowly pivoted, his mouth in a tight line. He pointed at the journal, "You think I'll let you do that?"

"You're not really going to have a choice," Harry explained, under his breath. He pulled his wand from his pocket.

Draco stood perfectly still, his eyes narrowed into bewildered half-moons, "You think wiping out my memory will help you?" He didn't get an answer, so he turned his back to Harry, even if he was holding his wand out. If he wanted to do it, right then, then he could. Draco wasn't going to fight with him, not yet, not when he was still trying to figure out what to say or if there was anything he even could say to soothe the entire situation. But, he couldn't pretend that the idea was preposterous. After the night before, Harry had reason to think Draco wasn't completely loyal to the situation, therefore endangering the mission.

Draco closed the journal and turned his full attention back to Harry, again, "Fine, do it."

Harry lowered his wand, "I can't do it right now, I have to wait for permission to finish you off."

"Permission from _whom_?" Draco asked, before he could hold his tongue.

Harry said nothing to answer him. He walked back toward the desk, "I really am busy."

Draco just stared, from beside the gigantic, exquisite desk, as Harry retook his seat, "Potter, you can't do this."

Harry sighed, "It's not open for discussion. Fact is, you never should have known. You're a liability."

"I'm not a liability. You can't do this by yourself, you'll drive yourself insane. You will fail if you do this completely alone."

"I've never failed when I've done things alone. If I drive myself insane, it'll be a rightful malady, won't it be?"

Draco rubbed the back of his head, "Is... I mean... it's pointless for me to try and convince you otherwise, yes?"

"Yes," Harry assured, as he opened his journal and summoned his quill into his fingertips. "It's already decided on."

Draco walked toward the door, weakly, "When are you going to do it?"

"I already did," Harry assured, though it was muffled because his back was turned.

Draco turned around, "What do you mean?"

"This morning, I slipped into the kitchen and poured some of the potion into your goblet."

Draco laughed, aloud, as a wash of relief settled over his body. As soon as it had left his mouth, Harry had turned his head over his shoulder, as if to ask what was so funny. Indeed, it was a little funny, because Harry didn't seem to be thrilled about the idea of wiping out Draco's knowledge of the situation. He seemed to have been wanting to do it for the GOOD of the situation. He meant no harm by it, clearly, by the way he had let Draco read over the journal and the way he had calmly responded with honesty. In the same respect, Draco noted the complete seriousness and dedication of Harry to the cause, and had not let himself argue and protest, "Slipped some potion into my goblet, did you?"

Harry frowned, "Yes, I did. What?" When Draco snorted with laughter, Harry felt sick. "_What_?" He asked, forcefully.

Draco smiled, "I didn't eat breakfast this morning, mate—meaning, you slipped someone else that potion."

Harry turned away from him, at once, and scowled at the open window beside his desk, "Fuck," he responded. He hadn't known if Draco was going to eat his breakfast. He had even had a slight instinct to doubt that, after Draco's night with alcohol the previous sundown had put into play. Regardless, the potion-slip had only been Harry's first attempt. And, had it had worked, it wouldn't have fully wiped out Draco's memory, just numbed his knowledge to certain extents. He hadn't wanted to start out with the strongest means, because it was a Cliffdale potion, one that was horribly easy to make and frighteningly strong. He didn't like messing with potions.

Luckily, the potion Harry had meant to slip Draco that morning hadn't taken much advanced skill in potions.

Harry opened his journal and crossed out a sentence.

_Attempt one - Flundio Potion_

Harry had, unfortunately, anticipated the failure of his first attempt, so he had come up with five others to follow. He looked back at a still-chuckling Draco. Half of Harry was amused that his first attempt had failed, and the other half of him was relieved that Draco hadn't, indeed, been hit with the potion. Having been fearing this reaction for most of the night, since he had put his plan into action, Harry turned his eyes back down to his journal. Yes, he truly did not hate Draco's company. But, for the good of their fellow wizards, Draco had to be clueless and in the dark.

Only Harry could know, now, "In case you're wondering, whoever did drink it will probably sleep for a good few hours."

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, "I thought you said you didn't fail when you did things by yourself?"

Harry coughed down the urge to laugh. Instead, he stood up and turned around, with a forced frown, "First attempts always fail."

"Is that your way of telling me that you have other means of wiping out my memory?"

Harry shrugged, trying not to appear to smug. He wrapped his arms over his chest, "I don't want to do it, you know."

Draco, this time, stopped laughing. He frowned, too, with a snarl of his nose, "If you didn't want to, you wouldn't do it at all, simple as that."

"Whatever, Malfoy," Harry replied with, and walked around him, toward the bedroom door. "Think what you want."

Draco watched him, following him with about five feet of distance between them, "Before you do erase my memory..."

Harry opened the door, his stomach growling for the cheese crackers he was on a new-mission to obtain, "Hmm?"

Draco twisted, "For the record, though it'll only matter to you once I'm oblivious, again, last night was the first time I had ever kissed a man." Doh! How had he just said that aloud? He filled with awkward shivers at the sound of his own voice.

Harry quickly closed the door, his cheeks flushing at the thought of someone overhearing. "I don't care, Draco."

"No, no, see that's where the lie ends, Harry," Draco spoke up, his voice deeper and more serious than usual. He walked toward the boy in front of him, dropping his arms from his chest. "You can lie to yourself about whatever you want. You can try to erase the fact that, yeah, I'm Draco Malfoy, and you're Harry Potter, and we're getting along—_mutually_. You can try and pretend that the only reason you want to erase my memory of who you are, Harry, is so I don't blurt it out to someone, but you know I never would."

Harry squirmed a bit, twisting with his hips.

Draco stopped, in front of him, "I'm not jumping for joy to acknowledge it, Harry, but it is there." He didn't look at Harry, and he was sure Harry wasn't looking at him. If this was going to go forth, and Draco was going to be blocked out from ever remembering what he had learned in the last few days, he needed to make sure that the record was set straight and billed as honesty. "You _do_ care, and I'm not trying to say anything more than that, because I don't know anything more than the fact that we're both dumb-asses to try and stand here and say that neither of us cares."

Harry was stony-faced, "I don't care about it _that_ way."

Draco seethed, "I'm not trying to call you _gay_, Harry, so drop the look."

Harry didn't drop the look, his mouth in a tight, tense, scared—SCARED!--line, "What _are_ you saying, then?"

Draco just stared at him for a few silent seconds, before he put his hand against his own chest and croaked, "What do you think, Harry? Who was kissing the boy last night? Oh, that's right, it was _ME_! Get it? I'm trying to say that _I'm_ gay, dumb-ass!" And, he smacked Harry, lightly, upside his head, just because he was forced to have to blurt it out. Though, he still didn't feel like that was fully true, so he shifted. He wasn't sure what he was. The more time he spent around Harry, er, Judas—whoever the hell he was—the more "Harry-gay" Draco became, and it drove him nuts. He had just... gone in for the kill, the night before. Hell, if he couldn't have Potter, he could see where his loyalties were at with other men.

That was what his drunk subconscious had allowed to happen.

"Er," came in reply.

They stared at each other for about two seconds, which proved to be entirely too long.

Harry hadn't a word to say.

Draco pulled his eyes away, annoyed, and pointed at the door, "Could you move? I'm going out with friends."

Harry stepped away from the door, very awkwardly, looking out the window over Draco's shoulder, "Uh, yeah."

Draco opened the door. His chest was tight. He felt a little oxygen-deprived.

Harry watched him, but then held the door open as Draco went to close it, "Good for you, Malfoy." Harry was lame. He knew it.

Draco turned around, in the hallway, "No, no, Harry, I don't think you understand what I mean."

Harry gave an uneasy laugh, halfway hiding behind the door, his head peaking out, "Er, how could I not?"

Draco just kept his eyes, this time, confidently on Harry, unfaltering, "Thing is, last night, he wasn't so hot."

"Uh," Harry answered, once more, having no idea where the conversation was going. "That's... _fascinating_, Malfoy."

Draco ignored the response in order to be able to continue in the right direction, "_I'm not gay_, Harry."

Harry sighed, immediately frustrated and confused. He opened the door all of the way, flabbergasted. Was Draco playing games, here? "Why'd you just tell me you were gay, then, Malfoy?"

Draco shrugged, "I meant for you to understand that, where it concerns you, I _am_ gay. Otherwise, no. No, I'm not."

Harry heard the birds chirping outside of the window, and that was all.

_What_?

Draco turned around and started down the hall. Point was, he had only wanted to get it off of his chest. If Harry was going to go ahead and erase his memory, he should have at least known. From there on out, or after his memory of the situation was erased, Draco would believe Harry to be dead, just like the rest of the world. And, Judas Cliffdale's face would belong only to Judas Cliffdale's spirit, and not Harry Potter's. He wasn't in love with Harry to the extent that it needed to be dramatic. But, whatever it was that had always pulled Draco toward Harry's presence, it wasn't appropriate to just try and forget that very magnetic pull and pass it off as nothing. They had been enemies, and then enemies with respect for each other, and then, yes, friends—or, something more monumental than friends--enemies with feelings of friendship toward the other, if that were even possible.

So, Draco had admitted it, putting to rest all of the little bantering snide remarks Harry had tossed at him in jest.

The night before, kissing his friend Bert, it hadn't been some life-changing experience. It hadn't been that great.

He had made out with a girlfriend of his, too, drunkenly, the night before, as well, and that had been... fantastic.

However, sexuality didn't matter when it came to Harry Potter. Draco thought he was amazing.

Blah, blah, years of resentment had faded into nothing more than a little-boy crush of envy. From envy to love.

Admittedly, Draco did have love for Harry, in a way he did for no one else. And, he said it aloud! And, to Harry! Sort of!

Harry closed his bedroom door, a few seconds later, pacing himself sturdy with tightly pressed hands to the door. He slammed his forehead against the door about two seconds later and growled, "_What_ the _hell_."


	9. The At Last Answers

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** Thanks for reviewing, guys! I'm having a bit of a writer's block, but I tried to write through it. I hope it's enjoyed!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Nine

The At-Last Answers

The next three days passed slowly. Though there was much for Harry to do in the long-run, the short term of summer represented nothing of big action. He couldn't plan out his entire vision of what he planned to happen, because he had no idea what was going to happen. Anticipating something that was never going to happen a certain way was pointless to Harry, and all he did was fret more when he thought about it. Therefore, he had given up and given in to the one thing he _did_ know for sure—he was at the Malfoy estate for the rest of the summer holiday.

Harry hadn't actually paid much attention to the situation with Draco. As luck would have had it, they barely saw each other. It wasn't until four mornings later, at breakfast, did Harry actually start to realize that it wasn't luck, at all, that had kept them from seeing each other. It was a purposeful arrangement made by Draco, who, for the fourth morning in the row, wasn't seated at the dining table for breakfast.

Harry looked around the dining hall with bleary, blurry, expectant eyes when he walked through the open doors. It was a dark morning, rainy and cloudy. For the first time in four days, the curtains were pulled off from across the windows, allowing Harry to see the rain pouring down in the lush flower garden a few feet in front of one of the windows. And, as usual, it was Cornwell and Dickie sitting at the table. Narcissa hadn't yet shown up, which left the three alone. He walked into the warm, lit room, wrapping his arms around his upper body over his T-shirt covered chest, "G'mornin', Cornwell."

Cornwell looked up with a smile, "_Great_ morning, Judas."

Harry stopped walking and looked at Cornwell with a doubtful side glance, "Have you noticed the storm?"

At this, Cornwell glanced over his shoulder and to the window. But, he waved it off with one hand before he turned back to look at Harry, this time with his full attention, "Stormy weather is my favorite, makes me feel alive! When it's sunny out, it's like I have something to complete with." And, he smiled as Harry slowly took his seat opposite. "No, see, Judas, it's a good morning, because the house-elves have finally noticed that Dickie can't digest huge chunks of food."

Harry laughed, distractedly, looking away from Cornwell and back to Dickie. It had been very hard for Harry to see Cornwell and know who he had been to James. There were so many things that Harry wanted to ask him. He wanted to hear stories, share stories, and listen with very open ears. He was hoping he would be able to talk to Cornwell about his father, one day, but he didn't want to force it so it didn't appear suspicious, "Are house-elves supposed to cut food smaller for toddlers or was that just something you'd assume they'd do?"

Cornwell didn't seem bothered. He shrugged with an honest, slightly helpless grin, "They used to do it for Draco, that's all."

Harry picked up his silver goblet in his right hand, "Speaking of, do you know if he's still sick?"

"Sick? Draco's not sick," Cornwell replied, casually, as if there was nothing to it. After a couple of seconds had passed, while Harry waited for more of an explanation, Cornwell looked up from a battered, old book he had been skimming through with his dark eyes squinted. An epiphany seemed to have hit him. "_Oh_."

Harry tilted his head at the knowing answer from Cornwell, "That would be my reaction, too. _Oh_." Knowing perfectly well what the answer meant, Harry's eyes lowered down into his full goblet, the contents which he had not yet taken a sip of, because he was distracted. It must have been obvious that Draco wasn't indeed, sick, as Harry had been supposing to himself. Draco was skipping meals purposely, was he? How old were they, anyway? Twelve? No, they were seventeen. What a weakling Draco Malfoy was!

Harry sat up straight, with an annoyed smirk, and placed his goblet down, "Draco's such an—"

"Resorting to name calling so early in the morning, Judas?" Draco curtly interrupted the sudden iciness of Harry's voice, as he strolled into the dining room in a damper mood. Nothing had been agreeing with him that morning. His clothes didn't seem to fit right. His shoes didn't seem to look right. He seemed to have shrunken up a bit. Two instances that morning had reintroduced his unsuspecting toes to unexpected objects on the floors around his home—albeit, the same exact home he had gone most of his 17 years knowing with hardly any stubbing incidents. Even his face looked unfamiliar, that morning. Everything seemed unfamiliar and not worth the effort of looking at or appraising, which was something that Draco had always taken joy in.

Regardless of what most everyone thought of him, Draco had grown up trying to see beauty in _everything_.

Harry turned around, startled by the voice. He couldn't help it. Hearing Draco's voice was a strange sensation to his ears. Being that he hadn't given much thought to the situation with Draco, because he hadn't figured it ended awkwardly, but rather with a calm departure from Draco, Harry hadn't had the chance to anticipate or wonder what it would be like to see Draco, for the first time, since he had confessed his feelings. And, because he hadn't thought to prepare for the moment, his open mouth opened to respond in a dully witty way and absolutely _nothing_ came out of it.

Draco took his seat at the table a couple of seconds later, "What am I, again? Don't let me stop you."

Harry carefully rested his back against the backrest of his chair. His hands slid off of the table, where his palms had been patiently resting on either side of his plate. They immediately dropped to the armrests of his chair, and his palms, instead, tightly clutched around the ends. He looked up from his plate at Draco, who he hadn't yet fully taken in. He didn't know what to say. He felt panicked, inside. It all hit him, like a ton of bricks, plain and simple. His eyes calmly landed on Draco.

Draco was leaned against his elbows, on the table, his eyes dark. Harry was scarily immobile, "Well, what am I?"

Harry felt his left eye twitched, so he blinked and sat up straight, looking back at his goblet, "Nothing," he answered. He didn't want to have a staring match with Draco. One, because it was a bad idea to do in the morning, and Harry was sure he would undoubtedly lose. Two, he could hardly even stare at Draco for five seconds before feeling like his chair was on fire and trying to burn him for not having realized just how horribly he had mentally handled the situation. He quickly lifted his goblet from the table and pulled it to his mouth, as if to give himself a distraction.

Draco didn't feel any satisfaction with the reaction, "I'm nothing. _Great_. And, you have _nothing_ to say to me?" Really?

Harry's eyes shot back to him, still with his goblet resting on his bottom lip. The juice in his mouth was cold, but he didn't feel like swallowing it. Draco's voice was cold enough to chill the whole room. It was also extremely pointed and bitter, almost in a daring, challenging way. And, sure enough, Draco was still leaned over the table, on his elbows, with his silver eyes extremely sharp, his mouth and nose twisted into some form of a snarl. And, Harry slowly pulled the goblet from his mouth, but it didn't go very far. It was the only thing separating Draco's full eye-contact, "Yeah, actually, I do."

Draco didn't budge, and he stayed as silent as he could possibly stay, "Enlighten me."

"Fine," Harry agreed, his voice sinking into a lower, deeper gruff. He took one last sip of his juice before lowering it back to the table. He leaned over the table, as if to imitate Draco. They both knew that Harry wasn't going to acknowledge the kind of answer Draco had challenged him to, but that didn't mean that Harry didn't have one. Actually, it did mean that. Harry had no idea what he was going to say to make things less awkward for both of them. He shrugged. "For one, I think you've been incredibly rude for not attending meals with myself and your family. If you had had some legit reason, it would have been fine. But, did you offer any reason? No. Here I've been thinking you were ill."

"What makes you think I haven't been ill?" Draco threw right back at him, without so much as a half of second separating the end of Harry's sentence and the beginning of his own. The response seemed all too sharp, and it shot through the room almost like a bullet, cold, fast, and extremely forceful. He turned his attention away from Harry and to Cornwell and Dickie, both of whom were just staring at him as if there was something extremely wrong with him. He looked away from them and back to Harry, with deadened eyes and an unapologetic expression. "I have been extremely ill. Thanks for dropping by, by the way. I _really_ appreciated you coming to wish me well and see how I've been."

Harry angrily sneered, "What a great big—bloody liar, you are," he threw across the table. "You've not been sick!"

It was too early in the morning for Draco to begin to fight with Harry. It wasn't just them at breakfast. It was also Cornwell and Dickie and, eventually, his mother. Where was she, anyway? She was usually always in the room before Cornwell and Dickie. The couple of mornings before, Draco had snuck down to the dining room, late for breakfast, and peaked his head in to see if Harry was there. Harry had been there every time, which had given Draco a passionately spirited reason to be bitter toward Harry that much more. Had Draco been sharing breakfast with his family? No, _Harry_ had.

Draco turned his eyes away from Harry, letting it go, "I've been busy, and Cornwell and my mother both were already informed. Telling you must have... slipped my mind."

Harry mentally asked himself what it was that Draco had been busy doing. _Being a bloody coward!_

Draco, as if sensing the question, looked away from smiling at Dickie's tired, nearly comatose, sweet face, and back to Harry. He didn't want Cornwell thinking that he and Harry were on bad terms. Draco didn't know what kind of terms they were on, but he wasn't going to call them bad. If anything, it had been he who had been avoiding Harry at all costs. He had even called a meeting of the house-elves. He had asked them to inform him of where Harry was every once in awhile, just so if Draco had to venture out of his room or to his study, he wouldn't run into Harry. And, the more time that had passed as he avoided Harry, the worse the whole entire situation had become in his own mind.

He forced a tiny grin in Harry's general direction, "Things have calmed down, though, at least for today."

"Good," Harry distracted answered, forcing the same sort of carelessness. "Are you up for some flying?"

Draco's shook his head from side to side, "I have plans at twelve, and a birthday party to attend this evening."

Harry's eyelids slightly drooped. He only nodded, knowingly. However, his eye-contacted stayed attached, solely, to the window over to the left of Draco, between he and Dickie. He wasn't surprised that Draco had plans, whether they were real or not. He had friends, or, at least, people who entertained him and made him feel like he had friends. Whether or not they were friends, Harry knew it didn't matter to Draco. Draco didn't get friendship out of people. He pulled for deeper meanings and connections. He had told Harry that he didn't have any friends, per-se. Remembering this, his brown eyes returned to Draco, who was laughing, loudly, chattering with Dickie about something that made absolutely no sense. It was mostly gibberish. He stared right through Draco, wanting to blurt out so many things that he couldn't seem to dictate mentally. These things wanted to be expressed, but they weren't fully formed and molded into thoughts, yet.

"I have plans, too, this evening. Maybe we're going to the same party?"

Draco looked away from Dickie, fully interested in the insinuation, "We might. I'm going to Bert's." When Harry didn't offer anymore of his own plans, Draco looked away from him and to Cornwell, as if to direction the statement to him, as well. He knew perfectly well who Bert was. Cornwell knew all of Draco's friends, but he didn't approve of any of them. Sure enough, Cornwell's face was extremely bored and annoyed at the mention of Bert. He rolled his eyes, as well, and Draco caught it. "There's no need for that, Cornwell. It's his birthday, I have to go, really. He's not as bad as you think he is—none of them are."

Cornwell placed his book down on the table, seemingly very comfortable in his chair, "You'll never convince me, Draco, that any of them are good for you," he returned, seriously. He looked at Harry, who was looking between he and Draco, confused. "Judas, you wouldn't want to get involved with the likes of Draco's friends, and you definitely wouldn't go to that party if invited. Their taste in clothing would rid you of all of the class you were born with."

Harry was instantly connected with the conversation, and he perked up, "Believe me, I've already suffered the loss."

Draco ignored Cornwell's remark, more focused on Harry's very bright response, "You could use a little lightening up."

Harry smirked, and it came very easily, "If by lightening up, you mean wearing bright, neon-green, frilly blouses, I disagree," he laughed, honestly, without any sort of undertone about what else was going on between them, or had been said between them. Cornwell had spoken the truth! The group that Draco hung with were the LAST group Harry would have pegged Draco with. Draco had always been very conservatively dressed, wearing dark, yet still flattering, colors. But, the group of cohorts he threw himself in with were always clad in some ridiculous getup in horribly ugly neon colors. Harry liked neon colors! He just didn't agree with so MANY bright colors on one person, who then stood in a group with six OTHER brightly blinding people. It hurt his eyes! It really did! "I'd rather be tense and brooding than airy and idiotic—"

"Wearing bright clothes does not make one idiotic," Draco drawled across the table, not amused.

"It does to me. Looking at them makes my IQ lower. I can't imagine what wearing it would do."

Cornwell snorted into his goblet. He lowered it, "_Well_ said, Judas."

Draco looked away from Harry, instantly, and to his father. Something sharp crammed against his chest, and it hurt. What was this, anyway? Harry and Cornwell having breakfast together? Laughing together? SHARING OPINIONS ON DRACO'S FRIENDS? What was this? It was not acceptable! And, with extreme annoyance, Draco pushed his chair back, a small bit, and stood up, "What's it to either of you, anyway? It's clothing, and you honestly go around judging people on their clothing? What if people judged you on stripping your magic, Cornwell, or you... just... what if anyone knew the truth about you, _Judas_? The truth about _any_ of us? It's just clothing!"

"Draco, sit down," Cornwell immediately seemed annoyed, and he sounded it, too.

Draco didn't sit down, "I want to know why you insist on demeaning them every _damn_ time I mention them."

"Draco, I don't like Bert because of what he did to you when you were nine, and I never will." It was a very slow, tense response, and it was that way purposely, as if for Draco to hear every small syllable that left his father's mouth. And, Draco's face immediately blanketed over, and his mouth untwisted. "It has nothing to do with his clothes. I don't like Nancy, because she sleeps with every man in her sight, and she has destroyed at least three marriages of people in your family's society circle. I don't like the rest of them, and I'm not going to bother giving their names the time of day. They have all treated you badly, because they had treated _me_ badly, and my family badly, and have disrespected who I am, and who, essentially, _you_ are—but, they don't know who you are, do they?" And, he pushed his chair back, too, and stood up. He lifted his book, his jaw clenched.

Harry could hardly breathe. Cornwell's eyes were so dark and intense. Draco couldn't even look at him, now.

"If they did know, I dare say you'd be known as that _Black_ kid—you know, _that_ one, with _dirty_ blood. Draco Malfoy-_Black_." There was a slight pause. "That's how they would say it, you know, with that spit. I hear it all of the time. I've perfected it."

"They wouldn't do that, no matter what you think. They're not the same sort of people their parents are. We're a different generation, Cornwell."

"You'll have to excuse me for looking down upon your _friends_, Draco, because I sincerely believe they don't care for you. Go ahead, disagree. Make whatever friends you want to. Be friends with Bert, but don't ax out Pansy, or Crabbe, or even Goyle, though their families are hardly less harsh." He paused. "Perhaps you should spend more time with Judas and less time absorbed in with people who are only after power. Be friends with the people who already do have power, because YOU already have it. Doesn't matter what bloody generation you're from, Draco. All that matters to those people is your blood, and if you weren't Lucius Malfoy's son..."

Draco sat back down, carefully, in his chair. He bit down on his tongue to keep from saying anything else. He hadn't meant for any of what Cornwell had just said to be interpreted in such a serious, honest way. But, it hadn't occurred to Draco that Cornwell probably did think about these things more often then not. He was Draco's father. He had always cared for Draco. He had Draco's best interests at heart, always, and Draco knew it. But, he was still seventeen, he didn't think through the entire process of questioning Cornwell about something so ultimately true. And, it was true. Draco's friends didn't know that Draco was Cornwell's son. No one in did, and if anyone in his circle DID know, he'd be banished in a matter of minutes. He'd be a nothing and a no one, and not because he had dirty blood. It was because of who Cornwell was, and what Cornwell's past had been like. He had always been controversial. He was barely talked about, and when he was, he was discussed in tiny, harsh, passing whispers of thunderous lies and rare truths

"I am Lucius Malfoy's son. And, even if my blood is dirty, and I'm your son, I'm STILL Draco Malfoy."

Cornwell laughed. It immediately faded, as he walked around the table, with his book in hand, "You certainly are Draco Malfoy."

Draco was glaring at him, furious, "Don't start that, again. You MADE me Draco Malfoy."

"Uh, no, your _mother_ made you Draco Malfoy."

Draco's blood boiled, "What, would you rather her be Narcissa Bla..." But, something very heavy landed on his foot under the table, and Draco's attention and heat was immediately dropped. However, he had gone too far in his words for it to be taken as anything but what he had been about to say, out of blind anger and complete verbal nothingness. He had just been talking. He had always been that way when he and Cornwell argued. With anyone else, he was witty and often made points and kept his cool. When Cornwell would get mad at him, Draco would just refute everything with words that made no sense. They just came out of no where. But, these words were too horrible, even to say to Cornwell. He immediately closed his mouth, and looked at Harry.

Harry was shaking his head, hardly, with tense eyes, as if telling Draco to keep his mouth shut.

It was obvious that Harry had thrown some sort of spell at his foot. Draco could have kissed him—wait, no! Shit!

Draco quickly looked at the dining room door, toward Cornwell, shoving his seat back, in agony and panicked over what had blurted out of his mouth. He couldn't believe it. Oh, it was so lame to have been about to say what he had been about to say. The whole topic was never discussed, because it was just that HORRIBLE to both Cornwell and his mother. They just never, EVER even acknowledged it. And, Draco could not blame them. He would never, EVER speak of such a thing if he were in either of their situations. It must have been hard enough, or awkward enough, to even be in the same room, even after all of the years and conversations that had passed, "Wait, I didn't mean that."

Cornwell had slowly turned around, with infuriated eyes, "What a _stupid_ thing to say, Draco. You absolutely meant it."

Draco's whole body twitched.

Harry was watching Draco, in horror, his back to Cornwell. It was so bad, _so bad_. Draco was white. Completely white.

Draco stumbled from between his chair and the table, but he didn't get far, because he seemed frozen to the floor. How could he have been so stupid? What had possessed him to be such an immature little brat? He knew that what he said was taking things too far. It was pulling things out of left field and putting Cornwell in a very, very awkward position. He found it hard to keep his eyes on Cornwell's eyes for longer than three seconds before he had to blink to pretend that he wasn't feeling stung and burned by the disgusted, ashamed, disappointed look in the dark eyes opposite of his, "But, I—"

"Make sure your brother eats," Cornwell interrupted, as he turned back around to the doorway.

"Good-morning, everyone!"

Draco flinched at his mother's bright presence that had just come floating in the doorway. He didn't look at her, however, because he was attached to Cornwell's face. Cornwell didn't look at his mother, either. He was glaring at Draco, hard, even harder, "You know I really didn't mean it!" He talked as fast and clearly as he could, in hopes that he could do it before Cornwell flew out the door.

At this point, Harry looked over his shoulder, too, at Cornwell and Narcissa. Draco was so in the wrong, here.

Narcissa didn't have to look at Draco to see the tension, just at Cornwell, "What's going on?"

Draco collapsed down into his chair, a mess of numb lips and a blank mind.

"Draco was just asking me if I'd rather you have been Narcissa Black than Narcissa Malfoy."

Draco felt very sick. He shyly glanced up at his parents, but then felt even more ill. They hated each other. They had tried to be civil to each other while in Draco's company, but other than that, there was nothing between them but regret and anger. When the truth had come out, both Cornwell and Narcissa had sat Draco down to explain to him what had happened. It had been a very quick explanation—neither Cornwell nor Narcissa had ever been educated about who their cousins were. Cornwell knew Sirius, and that was it. Bid party. Boy meant girl. Lots of alcohol. One thing led to another. Boom. It was mostly Cornwell who had talked, as to obviously not make Narcissa have to say anything she didn't want to hear herself say. Experience had conveyed the message to Draco that his mother felt extremely despaired at every little reminder of Cornwell. Somehow, and Draco didn't know how, she had loved Draco just the same. His mother had always been his closest ally and his biggest supporter. She had never not loved him because of what he came in result of. He had never understood how she could have been so loving and open toward him, but so hateful toward herself over it.

It was extremely silent.

After a couple of more seconds, with Draco looking up at them, in tears, he finally looked down into his distraught hands.

"Draco—"

"I didn't mean it, okay! I didn't fucking mean it!" Draco immediately yelled, before his mother could continue. He was horrified with himself. He was horrified with the situation. He was horrified with his birth. He was horrified that he just cursed in front of his little brother. He was horrified that he was saying these things in front of Harry Potter. He was horrified that he had told Harry Potter that he was damn well nearly in LOVE with him. Warring with himself, internally, he was finally pushed too far with his inner wounds and demons, and he looked back up, bravely. "I know you hate each other, and I know you hate acknowledging it, but it's WHO I AM! You can't go on avoiding it, forever! I'm bound to blurt out stupid shit like I just did! You explained my whole entire life to me in about two minutes, and gave me no time to ask questions, even as I got older. For all I know, you're still—"

"Draco, SHUT _up_," Harry hissed at him, from across the table, jumping in. It was loud enough to be obvious.

Draco glanced at him, "My parents are _cousins_, I can't keep dismissing it like they do. Be on my side, _for once_."

Harry covered his eyes, his elbow on the table. Something in Draco had snapped off, and he could nearly _feel_ it.

Draco looked back at the two people staring at him by the door, "I mean, you did like each other _enough_."

Cornwell attempted to say something, but it came out in furious hisses, and then, loudly, "S'over."

"For you!" Draco exclaimed, exasperated, and pushed himself up. "For _you_, it's over! For me, I have questions!"

"QUESTIONS?" Cornwell nearly screamed, and he laughed with insanely furious laughter. "You little--!"

Draco interrupted him, just as quick and emotionally unbalanced, "QUESTIONS!" He agreed, just as loudly, demanding his claim with passion. He saw Harry rise up from the table, too, across from him. He said nothing, though, just started walking around the right of the table, toward the end of it. He knew that Harry was going to take Dickie out of the room, or he at least seemed to be seeing that something was coming on, here, or the onslaught of curses about to erupt from a raving Cornwell, on one side of the room, and a demanding, smarmy, sadistically satisfied Draco on the other. "Yeah! Questions! Were you in love?"

Cornwell stopped raving and just glanced at him, half turned away, laughing, in clear bewilderment, "I can't believe this!"

Draco growled and looked at his mother, instead, but he knew she wouldn't answer him, either, "WERE YOU?"

Narcissa looked as if she were still confused on what room she had just entered and who Draco and Cornwell were, "Draco, you know what happened—"

But, Cornwell turned toward Draco, smirking uncontrollably, "No, no," he interrupted her. He was staring at Draco, who had quickly looked back at him, as if angry that Cornwell had interrupted. "No, Narcissa, don't butter it for him. He's seventeen, he wants answers. Give them to him—okay, Draco, I'll give you answers." He walked toward the door and closed it, knowing perfectly well that Harry had been heading for the door with Dickie. In result, Harry quickly stopped. Cornwell glanced at him, without apology. He said nothing, because Harry took a seat, again, but one next to Dickie's high-chair.

Draco looked at them, too. Harry and Dickie were just looking at each other, almost adorably, both feeling helpless.

"Answers, Draco, you want them. Ask what you want to ask."

Draco glanced back at Cornwell, floored, "I just asked—"

"Right, love. Umm, I was."

"Merlin, oh mighty," Narcissa hissed and turned for the door. She opened it and left, slamming the door behind her.

Draco stared at Cornwell, his jaw dropped, "But, I thought you two only—I mean... one... the one night."

Cornwell had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes hard and cold. It was very eerie, "A lie, to spare you."

Draco felt like he had been punched in the chest when he realized just how many lies he was going to be informed had been told to him. No, no, wait. His mother, Lucius AND Cornwell had told him all the same story. Perhaps Cornwell was just going to have a fun go at Draco, because he was obviously in some sort of detrimental, invalid, obtrusively perfect mood. He was ready for a row. He was ready for it. And, Draco didn't know if Cornwell was going to make things up just to get Draco, himself, riled up. His mother having left the room could have meant two things. One, she had seen that Cornwell was going to be lying by him saying he was in love, and she didn't want to be a part of it, so she left. Two, he was telling the truth, and she didn't want to hear that, either, "It wasn't one night?"

"The first night it was."

Draco's mouth felt sewn together. He felt like he was ready to fall ill, and then he hesitated, "There were more nights?"

Cornwell just looked at him, his eyes very actively taking a role in the conversation, "Quite."

Draco twisted with his entire body, furious. MORE? LIARS! "YOU WERE IN LOVE?"

"No," Cornwell answered, with a light laugh. "I was. She wasn't."

"Bet it really fucked things up when you found out she was your cousin, huh?"

It was silent for a long time.

"Draco, if you loved... _someone_, and found out _he_ was your cousin, would you still love him?"

Draco's hand clutched over his stomach, and he turned away from Cornwell and toward the windows, turning his back. The answer had definitely not taken the direction Draco had hoped. Second of all, Cornwell had asked Draco if he had been in love with someone, and found out that the someone was his cousin, would he still love HIM. HIM! A BOY! A MALE! Cornwell was calling him out! With the boy-thing! Boy thing! Boy! His left palm molded over his mouth, and he swallowed down his knot of discomfort, "You don't still love her, do you?"

"For the love of GOD, Draco. No!"

Draco looked over his shoulder, shaking with confusion and anger, his lips tense, "You_ loved_ her?"

Cornwell's face was very distraught, and it was obvious he felt sick to think about it, too, "Sure, it was stupid love. About four or five months."

"And, it never occurred to you that HER NAME WAS NARCISSA _BLACK_?"

"Fuck you, Draco, I didn't even know she was a witch! I was hardly EMBRACING magic at the time. I lived in muggle London ninety percent of my life when I was twenty. Black was a VERY common name—I even had other friends with the last name of Black in Muggle London—mind you, where I met her. It was just a funny idiosyncrasy that we had the same last name."

Draco was looking out the window, again, hugging himself for comfort, "_Five months_?"

"No, five, all together. We only dated three."

"How'd you find out, then?" Draco immediately asked, as he turned around, dropping his arms. He was mad.

"You want to know, Draco? I mean, you really want to know the truth?" But, Draco didn't nod. He also didn't refuse to hear what Cornwell was obviously open to telling him. It was quite clear to Draco that he was never going to have this opportunity, again, so he took it. He didn't care if Harry was in the room. He would have ended up telling him, anyway. "We had been together for about three and a half months, seriously. It was the holidays. She went to her family's for the holidays. I went to mine. That year, the Blacks, high, decided to bury the hatchet with the Blacks, low, in a very tiny, tiny get together, because a couple of my aunts and uncles missed my father, other uncle and aunt. The elders didn't really know about it. It was somewhat secret, but there are a lot of us. Many of us went. She showed up, and I heard someone talking about Narcissa_. Oh my! Have you seen Narcissa? With Lucius Malfoy! My goodness!_ "

Draco blinked, "What?"

"I kept hearing the name Narcissa, yet it never occurred to be to add Black to her last name. Narcissa Black. Even if I had, of course, standing in the kitchen helping my aunts with dinner—aunts who I had never met and who were fawning over me at every which way, I would have just figured that it was just a coincidence that I had a cousin named Narcissa Black when the girl I was dating—and happened to be in love with—was also named Narcissa Black. Well, it was sometime later, in the backyard, that I run ran into Lucius—of course, who I knew from Hogwarts—a couple of years younger than me, who had just graduated from Hogwarts. I had always thought he was scum, from the moment my eyes ever landed on him. Perhaps I knew what the future was going to hold, I don't know. I never had a reason not to like him. I just didn't."

Draco was standing against the wall, his arms tightly hugging over his chest, still very numb to his, "Mum was—"

"Sure was. After Hogwarts, I was her dirty, little Muggle secret.

"But—"

"No, Draco, there is no _but_, here. Anyhow, Sirius and I were having a laugh a few minutes later. Lucius had mentioned that he was engaged, so we kept talking about the poor, unfortunate soul of this Narcissa woman. Of course, Sirius knew Narcissa was his cousin, and I was his cousin, but he didn't know about... well... that I knew her in a different way. We both went to Hogwarts, yes. Except, I didn't give a fuck about Hufflepuff, or younger girls, or even girls at all. In Hogwarts, I was too concentrated on James and school-work and frequent trips back into muggle London. I spent most of my free time using Floo Powder to get back home." He paused. "After those few minutes passed, Lucius dragged Narcissa over. I hadn't realized, either, at the time, probably due to my Butterbeer intake, that Lucius had no reason to be at the _Black_ function. He was, after all, Lucius _Malfoy_."

"But—"

"Bit of confusion. I thought she was there for me. Until I realized."

"How could you not have—"

"I never said I was smart!" Cornwell quickly interrupted, before the question could be asked. He was trying to get the explanation over with, as fast as possible. "Of course, by that time, it was five months in, and I was in love. She was, well... she's your mother, so I won't insult her in front of you. But, she knew. It was a known thing. That night, I had been telling everyone about MY lovely girlfriend, and I thank GOD I had never mentioned her by name." Draco was still leaning against the wall, but he had his hands over his face, his features buried and hidden away. He was shaking his head, barely. "It took her just as long to see what was going on. You think you feel sick, now, Draco. Multiply that by about a thousand, and you'd feel a fraction of what I felt."

"God, damn," came a tiny hiss.

Draco looked over at Harry. His lips were chapped and parted, and even from where Draco stood, he could see Harry's dry tongue. He looked away, however, his throat swollen. He stared right at his father, for the very first time that morning, in a civil, calmed way. He didn't know how to respond to what he was being told. The lie he had grown up believing was much easier to deal with. A one-night stand, too much alcohol, found out they were cousins—the end. Love hadn't been involved. His mother hadn't been doing his father at the same time as Lucius. OH, no. He clutched the back of his head, "You're lying!"

"Of course_ I'm_ lying, Draco. Your mother is perfect, yes. Yes, she did _nothing_ wrong."

Draco seethed and started forward, "Don't talk about her like that, don't drag her into it!"

"I'll insult her if I want. I still think she's a whore for what she did, and you telling me she's not isn't going to change it."

Draco stopped, "If you ever call her a whore, again, I'll—"

"Save it, Draco. I'll call her a whore if I damn well want to, and I have the right to. That part is none of your business."

Draco swallowed, but he couldn't find the anger to spew back with. Er, Cornwell had a point. "But..."

"I left the reunion, immediately—threw up for awhile—and, by awhile, I mean, non-stop, for about a week. And, then I debated about throwing myself off a cliff—and, I nearly did. A couple of weeks later, she wrote me a letter, and told me... about you."

Draco stared at him, "Say it with a little more enthusiasm, why don't you."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Draco, did I miss the memo where I should have been excited about the news?" It was a stunned, hurt question. It had come out very emotional, and Draco had nothing to reply with in response to the emotion and honesty. "Have you enough answers, now? We sent letters back and forth for about a week. I finally agreed to see her. We told Lucius, Lucius agreed to raise you as his son, I stayed away, I was there when you were born. I came over every day and played with you. I was named your godfather. I used to watch you for a week here and a week or two every month, and you grew up in my tiny apartment as much as you did in this place. And, you were amazing. You still are." He was lifting Dickie up, now, who had been listening with bored interest. He had no idea what was going on. But, they were both now looking at Draco. "Enough answers, Draco? Are we done with this, now? Because, as much as you hate what you are, I hate acknowledging it."

Draco was staring out the window again, in an attempt to drown out the urge to do something more severe.

Harry watched. The only answer Draco gave was a nod of his head, and his platinum head bobbed.

"Good. I think Dickie and I will be leaving this afternoon."

Draco's eyes closed, and his chin tilted down. All he could ask was, "You think you'd be safe anywhere else?"

"I'm safer away from you than anyone else in the world, Draco. I'm pretty sure I'm not wanted here, anyway. I never have been, and the older you get, and the more time that passes, it's obvious you've done just fine without me being around at all."

Draco's mouth opened, his jaw unlatched, but then it closed seconds later, and tears finally began to pour from his eyes. He didn't respond because he had no idea how to respond or what to respond with. He found it in himself to turn around and drop his arms from his chest. He was seventeen years old. He could hold his own. He had every right to ask the questions he had. He approached the dining table, again, when Cornwell was heading for the door, with a confused Dickie in his arms, "You won't be going anywhere, Cornwell."

Harry looked up from the empty table in front of him. Draco's voice was deeper than it had ever been. It was strong and confident, and there was something very controlling about the way he spoke. And, sure enough, Draco was staring at Cornwell from the side of the table, his hands placed down on the table top. Because he was so distracted and focused on Cornwell, Harry had a very open moment to take in all of the fierceness that was suddenly Draco Malfoy, his body long and fluid, his arms toned, his neck long. His jaw was firm and set, and his nose was straight and thinned out by the obvious expression he was pressing on. He was trying to be taken seriously, and Harry didn't think Cornwell could look away from the expression with anything but respect, because Harry certainly couldn't, and that was saying a lot.

"I am perfectly capable of making my own choices, Draco, thank-you." He took the high-route.

Draco breathed in, deeply, but he tried not to make it noticeable. He couldn't keep doing this. His life couldn't continue to be this tumultuous. He should have just left his entire existence to the lie that he had been believing for years, always having sensed that things were soothed just for his own benefit, like that was a bad thing. In fact, it wasn't a bad thing. It had been for his own benefit, but Draco was never satisfied with knowing the smallest of truths. He got himself into trouble, often, because he was too nosy for his own good. He didn't like being lied to, and he certainly didn't like being lied to when the lie involved him, "I'm sorry, but you no longer get to make your own choices, not when it involves your safety. You have two of us to worry about, now—and, by us, I mean your sons."

Cornwell snorted with annoyed laughter. He set Dickie down on his feet and held his hand.

Draco looked between them. Deep down, he wondered what it would have been like to rewind time and see himself standing there, instead of Dickie, with a younger version of Cornwell holding his own hand. There was a very uncanny likeness that Dickie had to Draco, and the resemblance that they both had to Cornwell was extremely fascinating. Not a time went by when Draco looked at Cornwell when he didn't mentally feel stunned by his relative's face in relation to his own, "Don't go being rebellious just to be rebellious, Cornwell. That's in my nature, not yours. Don't try to leave. I'll get mad—"

"And, we all know Draco stutters like a girl when he's mad," Harry lightly threw in, just for kicks.

Draco felt his blood heat, but he did laugh, "Shut up, would you? No one asked you."

Harry took no offense, just shrugged his shoulders as he comfortably rested his back into his chair, "I think that's the beauty of my existence in your life, Draco," he continued, easily. He was giving Cornwell a way out. They all knew that he was looking for one. If Harry was talking, Draco was going to be focused on what he was saying, purposely, just so Cornwell would leave without having it seemed like Draco had made him do so. It seemed that Draco didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he had made Cornwell extremely uncomfortable, agitated and angry within the last couple of minutes. "You're never going to actually ask me what I think. I'm just going to tell you, anyway."

Draco tilted his head, leaning up over the table on his elbows, "No, no, I thought that was my role?"

"Nah, changed, this morning," Harry informed him, not meeting his eyes, yet. "I wouldn't get too comfortable."

"You'll be wanting your brooding characteristic back, then."

Harry nodded at him, "Something like that—look, why don't we get out of here?" Cornwell was gone, and now Dickie was running around the end of the table to get to Draco, who was already pushing his chair back and standing up, his eyes intently glowing at the little blonde-headed being floating so innocently around the room. When Dickie collided with Draco's legs, with his hands outstretched up to the taller, platinum swan, Harry pushed his own chair back and stood up. He knew just as well as Draco that neither of them wanted to be stuck in the dining room, because the dining room just didn't seem to be real, anymore. Eating at the dining table seemed forced and awkward, and they were seventeen years old, with summers and monsters to play and fake out, and they had much on their minds, too much to sit at a dining table and act like everything else going on in their world was calm enough to be taking such elegant, _graceful _steps of living.

Draco bent down and tightly scooped up the smaller boy in his long, lean, outstretched arms. Though he wasn't going to go on telling people about it, Draco felt extremely content and fulfilled when he was hugging Dickie or walking around the estate and showing him things, though Dickie didn't care for any of them. He seemed to like spending as much time with Draco as Draco did with him, and, damnit, it felt good. It meant that there was someone in his life who just liked him for existing. The only thing Dickie knew about Draco was that he was his older brother, and that was it. He would never put a thing between them, and he swore it.

As Draco lifted Dickie up, he groaned, and then laughed as he looked at Harry.

Harry's left eyebrow was cocked up, and he was taking a sip from his goblet. He tried not to smile too hard.

Draco's lips began to curl up, and he could feel them, "Something funny, Smirky McSmirkinson?"

Harry slowly lowered his goblet. When he swallowed his juice, he tried his damnedest to swallow down his utmost delight and smugness at Draco. Come on, now. He had never seen Draco like this. In fact, he had never seen anyone, really, devote such attention to a smaller family member. Sure, Ron's siblings had always been nice to him. But, this was different. Dickie was only a baby. And, here was Draco, snuggling Dickie and giving him adorable little smiles that Harry had never deemed possible from Draco in the first place! He was genuine to Dickie, in a way that Draco had never seemed to be genuine to anyone. It was innocent and... tender. Watching them, a part of Harry felt like he was intruding, but Draco had never made it a point to make Harry feel guilty for seeing softer moments, "I didn't say anything!"

Harry placed his goblet down on the table, heavily, and then slyly slipped out from between two gorgeously carved wooden chairs. He had still yet to erase Draco Malfoy's memory, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to. He had given the situation the time to cool off. He had given it thought. The pros of erasing Draco's knowledge of Harry's existence were far outweighed by the cons of erasing Draco's memory. If there was one thing, and one thing only, that Draco Malfoy had that no one else in the world did, it was Harry Potter's complete attention, and with that attention came loyalty and trust.

Draco seemed keen on keeping these things protected, and that was worth every con of him knowing.

Draco's eyes shifted down to Dickie, who was looking at Harry, too, with a scrunched nose. Agreeing with this expression as a sentiment of thought and feeling, Draco nodded along and looked back at Harry with a similar scrunching of his nose, "It's not in what you say, _Cliffdale_, it's in the way you react. Dickie, and I—yes, you," he laughed, as Dickie looked at him. He looked back at Harry from the widened eyes looking up into his. "Dickie and I suggest we spend the rest of the morning reading stories."

Harry turned around from the middle of the dining room. He laughed, "Reading?" He wasn't surprised! "Is that what you—I mean, _we_—high-society boys do for fun? Read stories to each other on rainy days?" As Draco walked around the end of the table, Harry found himself reeling on thoughts of Draco that he had never considered, before. Draco had always been a picture of perfection and high-society to Harry, and it was hitting him like a ton of bricks. He shifted. "It's raining, why don't we go outside?"

Draco stopped, about ten feet away from Harry, and smirked, "I don't want him getting sick, genius."

"I am a genius, Malfoy, because I know that running around in the rain isn't going to get him sick."

Draco sighed and leaned down.

Dickie plopped down onto his feet and then hurried toward the floor-length windows to look at the rain.

Draco watched him, curiously. Sure enough, at the mention of going outside, where it was raining, Dickie had wanting nothing more than to do so. He had run right to the windows, and now had his tiny palms pressed up against the windows, something which his mother would have shrilled at if she knew was happening, getting his tiny paw-prints of hands on the windows. He stood on his tiny tippy-toes, and pressed his face against the window. He stayed perfectly still. Convinced enough, though inwardly, Draco glanced back at Harry, "Do you have reasoning for this idea of running through the rain and coming out of it without the sniffles?"

Harry took a couple of steps toward Draco, "Rain and cold weather doesn't make you sick. It's a virus that makes you sick. Sure, cold weather makes our immune systems a little weaker, but what does that matter when you have the memory of running around in the rain? Or, making memories of running in the rain and then falling flat on your face and getting a scar? Did you want me to go on about how sheltered you are, or...?"

Draco, unimpressed, looked down at Harry's mouth, blatantly, "You're sorely mistaken, Potter."

Harry smiled to himself as Draco circled around him, bumping their shoulders, hard, for dramatic effect. He wrapped his arms up over his chest, slightly, because he was cold and slightly because it was the quickest and most automated defense mechanism that his body could recognize. He turned around, too, but stayed still. He kept his eyes on Draco's lean, yet toned, thin frame, as he walked up behind Dickie, stood still, and seemed to join him in gazing out the window, almost longingly. This made Harry slightly amused and slightly saddened, "I was just teasing about you being sheltered, wasn't I? I mean, you've played in the rain before, haven't you?"

Draco rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, "Are you _kidding_ me?"

Harry, feeling a bit embarrassed, quickly looked away, "How was I supposed to know!"

"Er, common sense, you bloody oaf—"

"Hey, _hey_!" Harry defended, in loud, good-natured laughter. "Watch the language, there is a miniature in the room!"

"Pufflyflit?" Draco asked, jokingly, and looked around. But, he then found Harry, again, with a hard smirk. But, when he saw that Harry was just smiling at the floor, in a distracted way, he turned his attention back down to Dickie. He relaxed his hands down in front of him. His outstretched fingertips hovered about two inches from the top of the small, blonde head. He leaned down the small bit to make the space disappear, and then brushed the platinum, bleach-blonde hair off of Dickie's small, pale forehead. But, he did have some lovely color. Neither of them had skin that would burn when put in the sun. Draco had just grown up being encouraged to stay out of the sun unless he was wearing extra-strength sun-protector. "Do you want to go outside?"

Dickie's head tilted all of the way back, and he looked right up at Draco, "'side?"

Draco nodded at him, barely, "Or would you rather me read you a story?"

Dickie turned around, so he was facing Draco's legs, and then he peaked around them at Harry.

Harry smiled at him and winked, once, for encouragement. He saw the flint and ember of sparkles beginning to expand and explode in the wide eyes, even from where he stood. Not even two seconds later had Dickie run out from around Draco's legs, clapping his tiny hands together, very excited about going outside without even having said so. Following right behind him was Draco, who was clapping, too, with Dickie.

Dickie giggled and collided with Draco's legs, again, squeezing them and squealing out a very sweet, "DRACO!"

Draco snorted with happy laughter, in love, completely, with Dickie. He leaned down and attacked the small little being in his arms, tightly. He pressed a kiss to the warm, small cheek, and then abruptly pulled himself right back up. Whatever Dickie wanted to do, Draco was going to do. He was lame, and he knew it, because he adored spending every damn second with Dickie that he could. And, once Dickie pulled away and started in a small, discombobulated run for the dining room door, Draco followed him. As he passed Harry, his left hand opened and clutched around the bare skin of Harry's elbow. He grasped it and pulled him along, without looking back at him. "If he gets sick from playing outside, YOU are going to be the one tending to his every little whim, and I have quite the feeling that he's like me when I'm sick, and you don't want that—"

Harry laughed, following Draco out the dining room door. He grasped Draco's shoulders in his hands, from behind, and gave an innocent, intense squeeze, "You don't know _what_ I want."

When Harry pulled his hands back and hurried from around Draco to chase after Dickie, in the entry hallway, Draco stopped walking. Whereas he stopped walking, Dickie tried to run faster, but just ended up giggling so hard that he lost his balance and fell over on his little hands and knees. For a second, he was silent, and Draco wondered if he was going to cry. But, he looked over his shoulder, saw that Harry was approaching him, and shrieked so loudly that even his mother had to hear, wherever she was. The whole world should have heard, because the world needed to hear something so precious and light-filled, "Would you stop stealing all of the good screams from my little brother, glory-stealer?"

Harry turned around, laughing, standing above Dickie, who was looking up at him, "No!"

Dickie looked at Draco, too, as he pushed himself up on his tiny feet, and he giggled, too, "No!"

Draco scoffed at them, mocking it, "You little jerks!"

Dickie's nose scrunched, and he started for Draco, glowing with happiness.

Draco pretended to start at Dickie, and Dickie cutely scuffled backward, his eyes lighting on fire.

Harry snorted with laughter, bewildered. Little kids were so strange! And, so cute! Yes, so cute!

Draco took another step for Dickie, and Dickie jumped and hid behind Harry. He peaked out.

Draco grinned at him, and then looked up to Harry's face. He couldn't help himself, "Even he knows you're a savior."

Harry rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. Dickie was playing hide and seek with Draco, now, from behind him, "Oh, that's funny, Malfoy."

Draco started laughing, finally. It was a very light, cheeky, full-mouthed laugh, with a broad, nearly wattage-inflicting smile shamelessly flickering out into the open, where it had so rarely ever been seen, even by the likes of his own mother. It was certainly not something Harry had seen, no, "I think so!" And, when the top of Dickie's head popped out from beside Harry's leg, Draco hurried toward him, half-bent. "You think I can't see you! I can see you! Hey! HEY! Where are you going!"

Dickie jumped out from behind Harry as Draco started around Harry to get to him, "Draco! RAWR!"

Harry found himself as the Polaris for the circular game of chase that Draco, so selflessly, had begun.

At last, though, Draco finally, easily, caught Dickie in his arms, against his chest, and stood up, straight. Dickie was struggling, giggling, but Draco held him out, with both of his hands, so he was like a little airplane, staring down at the ground. He stopped struggling and reached his hands out and wiggled his feet, as if he knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing in such a pose. Draco laughed, and looked right up to see Harry laughing the same way. He was in awe, and it was endearing. Satisfied beyond his own knowledge and appreciation, he felt oddly close to Harry as he looked back down at Dickie, "_Brilliant_."

"_Brilliant_," Harry agreed, and ruffled his hand over the back of Dickie's messy, fluffy white hair.

A few minutes later, Draco walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. The sight waiting for him wasn't a surprise. Harry was sitting on one of his couches, watching out the large, open windows cut into the stone of his walls. There was an anti-raindrop spell cast upon them, so none of the rain could penetrate his bedroom. It was his favorite charm, ever. Well, nearly. He ended up having a lot of favorite charms and spells, but only usually mentioned to people that his favorites were the ones he had just used around them. Naturally. He kept most of his true favorites secret. His rain charm, for example, was a real secret. He loved the rain. He loved being close to it.

Harry, leaned over his knees, his hands folded together between them, looked over. He said nothing.

Draco pointed over his shoulder as if to signify what he had just been doing, "He didn't wake up. I put him right down for his nap," he offered. When he finished talking, he felt a bit vulnerable. Did he really need to tell Harry that he had just put Dickie down for a nap? But, Harry didn't seem phased. All he did was nod, as if he already knew, which he did, because Dickie had fallen asleep after a very long-winded, hard-core, short-term game of "chase-Pufflyflit all around Draco's study". Remembering this, Draco looked around, before he approached the couches he and Harry had sat on, before, together. "Pufflyflit?"

Harry looked at Draco, and then toward the bed, where Draco was looking.

Draco sighed, sadly, and started for his bed, "Pufflyflit, it's okay. Come here. Dickie didn't mean any harm."

Harry had no idea where Draco was going until he dropped onto his knees and disappeared behind a couch. Harry climbed up on his knees, to the end of the couch, and leaned over it to see what Draco was doing. Draco was halfway under his bed, his calves and feet up in the air. But, there didn't appear to be any sort of struggle. No. Draco's feet rested back on the floor, and Harry could faintly hear the tiniest whispering thunder of soothing tones. Nothing about Draco surprised Harry, now, when it came to Draco's more sensitive side—something Harry had already come to terms with. He wasn't going to make Draco at all uncomfortable with the fact that he had been so open and trusting with Harry to see his more sensitive moments. It made him human, and Harry was sure that Draco wanted them both to understand that the other was only human, "Is he okay?"

"Yeah," was muffled a couple of seconds later. "He's sleepy, though."

"I'd be sleepy, too, if Dickie chased after me for twenty minutes."

As Draco slipped out from under the bed, he got up on his knees and pushed his butt up into the air.

Harry rolled his eyes, even though Draco couldn't see. From under the bed came Draco's face. He sat on his knees, seeming a little discombobulated and thoughtful. He looked around, and Harry caught his eyes. A smile immediately caught Draco's mouth, and Harry watched it form. Draco did have a sexy smile. He had a sexy everything, truth being told. But, the way his smiles formed was nearly addictive. After seeing one, all Harry could do was hope that he'd catch the next. They were so rare, these smiles of Draco's. He grinned back at Draco, easily, the blood having rushed to his head from leaning over the end of the couch, "What?"

Draco laughed. Harry was a sight. Well, Judas was. He was leaned over the couch, his arms dangling down. But, suddenly, Harry turned around until he was laying on his back, over the side of the couch. He pushed himself backward and hung his upper body upside down. His hands grasped over the sides of his face. Draco laughed, feeling too lazy to push himself up onto his feet. He crawled over to the couches, on his hands and knees. He sat in front of Harry's red face and looked him square in the eyes, "Isn't the blood rushing to your head?"

Harry laughed, "Yeah," he admitted.

Draco examined Harry's chin, as it was even with his eyes, "What's it like, having a different face?"

"Well," Harry began, and dropped his arms down, too. He felt his shirt pull up on his stomach, but he didn't care. It felt good to stretch out. He hadn't hung upside down in quite some time. The floor looked like the ceiling and the ceiling looked like the floor. And, Draco Malfoy looked just as appetizing and pretty as he always had, except now a bit more likable and friendly. He didn't mind sharing things with Draco. "It's very strange. It's not only my face, but everything else, too. Even when I touch my face with my hands, my fingertips are different, so I can't even familiarize with how my touch used to feel against my face.

Draco's eyes slipped down to Harry's hanging hair, and he couldn't help the small smile, "D'you miss you?"

Harry closed his eyes, "Yes," he laughed, because there wasn't a second to hesitate. "I miss my face."

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but then decided against it. He didn't want to jump on saying anything too soon. They were working on a friendship, here. It was a monumental relationship that already had a solid basis. They had a foundation. They even had all of their walls up. They were just working on furnishings, now. They were working on the colors of walls for certain rooms to put these furnishings in. He liked watching Harry talk. He liked knowing that, beneath Judas Cliffdale's exterior, Harry Potter's heart and soul were taking cover. His hands lifted from the cool, wooden floor. His palms opened, and he pressed them up, collecting the dark hair, with curiosity, "What else do you miss?"

Harry opened his eyes and stared up at Draco, openly, "Hmm, I had a freckle in my palm."

"What?" Draco laughed, amused and interested. "You had a freckle in your palm?"

Harry nodded, but failed at doing so successfully. He was too relaxed to follow through with the natural motion of the nod, "Yeah, it was really dark, too. I don't know where it ever came from. I just remember opening up my palm one day and seeing it there, thinking it was dirt. I guess I had never noticed it until it was big enough to catch my eyes," he explained, though halfway through his eyes had closed, again. It felt nice to close these eyes and rest his body. Being tired was the same sensation in every body, it seemed, now. He made his eyelashes flutter open, once more. Instead of finding Draco's eyes, he found his mouth, instead, because it was easiest to look at and level with his eyes. "Is that weird?"

Draco bobbed his hand up and down, softly, within the range of about two inches, playing with the weight of Harry's thick, new hair. It was a strange sensation, now, touching something of Judas Cliffdale's that he kept recognizing as something of Harry's. But, the brown locks were soft, and thick, and incredibly shiny. His eyes stayed lowered down, past Harry's eyes and down into his own hands, "A little," he quietly answered. "I don't think freckles on palms are that common."

Harry took the answer with a light smile, before he re-closed his eyes, "I liked that no one knew about it."

Draco's eyes slowly rose from his hands, which Harry's hair was spilled on. He had seen Harry's eyes close, but he hadn't wanted to find Harry's eyes when his own were open. It would have been awkward and strange. Draco did feel an awe and envy that Harry was so open and understanding, and so... genuinely, well, _cool_, about whatever it was that Draco felt for him. He wasn't in love with Harry, but he was attracted to him. Yet, here he was, inches from Harry's face, with his own, stroking locks of Harry's hair with his fingers. He didn't want to make it awkward, and staring into Harry's eyes from a couple of inches away would have made it awkward, no matter what the situation. And, whatever their situation was, Draco was extremely amazed that it hadn't put a huge distance between them, "No one?"

"No one," Harry agreed, barely audible, his lips dry. He was tired from too little sleep.

Draco's eyes were latched and locked onto Harry's mouth. It was warm, he could tell. And, his lips were slightly parted and dry, especially his bottom lip. There were small wrinkles in it, even, but that was the reason that Draco was urged by animalistic instinct to moisten the lip so the dry valleys would disappear. Judas Cliffdale was absolutely beautiful. He was stunning. He had... perfect teeth. He had a perfect mouth, perfect eyes, a perfect nose, and perfect bone-structure. But, Draco was so extremely confused. Though attracted to Judas, physically, he was also attracted to Harry. But, he knew if he kissed Harry, it wouldn't be Harry. It wasn't the same mouth, or those same, incredibly, piercing, sole-searching, darkly mysterious green eyes, or that perfectly shaped nose, or those cheekbones, or the familiar forehead wrinkle—and even those damn glasses!

Draco's eyes sank from Harry's—no, Judas's—mouth, right back down to his eyes, about to respond.

But, Harry's eyes were already open, and he was just watching, curiously. Draco seemed deeply captivated.

Draco flushed, "You're you, and I _enjoy _you, but... I mean, you're Judas. It confuses me."

Harry frowned, but to Draco it looked like a smile. But, Harry then did smile, because it was funny. Draco did the same, pointedly, looking at Harry's mouth, again. It was very unnerving, yet strangely exciting, to have Draco staring at his mouth with such thought and determination for clarity, especially when Draco was obviously slow to realizing when Harry's eyes were open, which made it even more strange, to be staring at Draco while he stared at some other feature of Judas's faces, unknowingly subject to Harry's own calculations and ponders, "If I ask you a question, and it's one you probably don't want me to ask you, will you pull back and... be all boy-like?" Draco smirked. "We're sharing a moment, aren't we? Just say you won't be shove-off-ish."

Draco rested his palms behind him and rested his weight on them, lounged back a bit, "Go ahead."

Harry had avoided giving off any strange vibes from the moment he had seen Draco that morning. He hadn't wanting things to end before they had begun. Draco had been a great confidant to him, already. Harry knew that most of his loyalties in the past meant nothing in the long-run. None of those loyalties and friends had ever been the same kind of friend or comrade that Draco was. He respected Draco. He liked throwing witty banter at Draco. He liked being shoved in frustration, and he liked being sexually demeaned by Draco. He liked joking around the way he and Draco joked around. He liked the way they talked to each other. He liked that they didn't have to pretend to be anyone who they weren't, "Are you attracted to Judas Cliffdale?"

Draco grinned, a little embarrassed. He shrugged, "Sure, I've already admitted that."

"No, I have a point with where this is going."

Draco figured. He tilted his head, bravely finding the dark eyes that had been trying to catch his, "Okay."

_Excellent_, thought Harry, "The feelings you have—these _Potter_ feelings, do they stem from who he was, before? Or, is it something, now, because he's gone, and I'm here to replace him?" In other words, had Draco been attracted to who he was, before, physically? Or, was it because he was in Judas Cliffdale's body? Had these feelings existed before the start of their very adventure, only days before? These were things that needed to be discussed, because Harry wanted, and needed, to know. He didn't like driving himself nuts with questions he knew he couldn't answer. And, he was waiting, his eyes having left Draco's. But, he looked back after the silence.

Draco's eyes gave him a light jab, as if to thank him for the eye-contact, "Don't be stupid, Potter."

Harry sighed, though not at all annoyed. He was frustrated, "_You need to stop calling me that_."

Draco smiled, gently, not forcing the genuine kindness he felt, "My attraction to you has absolutely nothing to do with the way Judas Cliffdale _looks_," he admitted, confidently, as if it were nothing. He didn't want to make it a mushy moment. Harry had asked him a question, so Draco was going to answer. He had been avoiding Harry for days because of what he had told him. He had been so upset with himself the following morning. He refused to ever drink, again, under the supervision of friends who didn't know when to stop, which made him figure that stopping was no fun, like it was no fun for them. But, because he had been avoiding Harry, he had also been dreading acknowledging, and had been horrified at the idea of discussing, what he had shared the few nights before.

Harry watched Draco, intently, his eyes squinted into half-moons, "_Really_?"

Draco tore his eyes away, "I liked you as you—your looks and your... whatever you are, now. A soul."

"A soul, I guess."

Draco's eyes slipped back his, and he started to chuckle. It crackled, deeply, "You were gorgeous, though. You were unique looking. Dark, brooding, and you face glowed when you laughed—like some fucking fairy-light."

Harry lifted his arms into the air. He flexed his wrists and then his hands. His palms, then, rested on either side of Draco's face and they molded against the warm, flawless skin. No one had ever called him gorgeous, before. He couldn't lie, either. It was oddly satisfying. But, he couldn't think about it, because there was no point. He couldn't be who he used to be, anymore, and rehashing the things he was going to miss was just going to bring him down even further than he already had sunken.

But, he felt like touching Draco. His fingertips were itching for Draco's skin, for his face, for his cheekbones, and his nose, his mouth, and his eyes. He wanted to touch every inch of such a face—because, up close, it was nearly godly. It was exquisite and radiant. He had kind eyes, kind eyes Harry had never noticed. They were warm and stunning, and when Draco laughed, twinkles seemed to whiten both of his eyes. And, Harry Potter was craving the attention and affection, and the very existence, of Draco Malfoy's smug, smirking, quick existence—because, he was none of those things, _solely_, anymore. He was more than just a face of an enemy twenty feet away. He was the face two inches away, and the only face in the world that Harry imagined he could ever feel as comfortable, and proud of, staring into, boy to boy, man to man, enemy to enemy, friend to friend, and ally to ally.

Harry was a bit in love with Draco's entire existence, now. There would never be a greater relationship than the one he had with Draco Malfoy, because there would never be another Draco Malfoy. There would never be someone, to Harry, who was so like him, yet so different. They were so similar, but _so_ different. They wanted what the other had, in some ways, and hated what the other had in other ways. It had been that way from the beginning, but only at that moment was he mature enough to give the credit where the credit was rightfully due.

Harry arched his back a bit more, for better access, and pulled Draco's face toward his.

Draco didn't panic. Though, he did feel completely limp, and his heart did thud, quite a bit, at the sudden tension.

Harry lightly pressed a small peck against the tip of Draco's nose, his thumb-tip brushing over the corner of Draco's mouth.

Draco blinked, noting his numbly hopeful mouth.

Harry could only find the strength within himself to give a nervous laugh, "I like you, Malfoy. You make me glad I have no friends." He put a small bit of space between their faces, still holding Draco's warm skin between his hands, as if Draco's face were a treasure. He carefully began to let go, but then stopped. Draco was just staring at him, with a gigantic smirk, and he was beginning to shake his head. Harry had been BRAVE, here. What he had just done could have ended up as a huge disaster! His fingertips stroked over the side of Draco's nose. He was being tender, and sweet, and completely innocent. But, he knew it wasn't innocent, so he began to smile, too, knowingly ashamed of Draco's reaction. "What!"

"You are the biggest tease. I swear to God, Potter," Draco laughed. "I should take advantage of this."

"Please don't, Malfoy," Harry lightly quipped, with an evil smile. "Want to play chess?"

Draco smiled, just staring at Harry's closed eyes, completely dumbfounded. Wow, "You're too tired. If you're going to play me in chess, you have to be completely awake. I like my opponents on their toes."

Harry smiled, and his hands finally fell from Draco's face. He pulled his head up, and then his body.

Draco pushed himself up on his hands and knees, because Harry had returned back to laying on the couch, like a normal person, rather than hanging over the side, upside down. Truth be told, Draco didn't know how Harry had gone so long hanging upside down without feeling sick or, well, dying. Just the thought of so much blood rushing to his head made Draco feel dizzy and lightheaded. But, he was up and walking around the couches within a few seconds. He plopped down in the one opposite of Harry, and he pulled his socked-feet up. He wrapped his arms around his chest, and looked down at the bulk of his arms, contemplative, "D'you want to come tonight?"

Harry 's fingers combed back through his hair, sleepily, and he glanced at Draco, "I can't. I have plans."

Draco looked back at him, squinting, "Oh, right. You never said where you were going."

"My viewing is tonight."

Draco felt gutted. Oh, shit. He scoured the back of his head with his left hand, feeling like a radical arse. How had the date skipped his mind? It was because he knew Harry was technically not dead, so the idea of Harry's funeral hadn't been phasing him as much as it might have. If Harry had been, indeed, dead, or if he had never told Draco that he was Harry, in the first place, Draco would have been thinking about the funeral non-stop, and he knew it. He felt insensitive, now, and like a huge failure at life. He grimaced, hard, not being able to help it. He saw that Harry was looking at him with a wry smile. Draco frowned at him, pointedly, "I... I didn't... I did forget, but—"

"Don't," Harry interrupted him, with a strange laugh, before he looked up at the ceiling. "Don't, it's okay."

"No, it's not okay," Draco insisted, loudly. Harry frowned at him, hard. Draco returned it. "We're going."

"I'm going," Harry quietly agreed. He wasn't looking forward to the night. "But, if you don't want to—"

"Don't be dense, Cliffdale. The love of my love-hate relationship has died. I _must _bid him farewell."

Harry snorted with laughter and folded his arm over his face, his cheeks and jaw hurting from laughing.

Harry's laughter eventually faded, as did conversation. Harry ended up dozing off.

Draco watched him for a few minutes before he tossed a blanket over him and decided to let him sleep for awhile, there, laying on the couch, not having intended on taking a nap. It was for the best. Harry was going to be witnessing his_ own_ funeral. He was going to see himself in a coffin. He was going to see all of the people he loved heartbroken and despaired. He was going to see a lot of things he wasn't going to be happy about, and maybe even a few people he wouldn't be happy to see. But, Draco was going to be with him, even if he silently followed Harry around and said nothing at all. He wasn't going to let Harry be alone, unless he requested it, on such a night. Yes, oh what a night it was going to be.

At nine o'clock that evening, Draco led the way, slowly, down a small, dark, rock-imbedded road. He was holding an envelope in his right hand. Inside of the envelope was a card expressing his sorrows to Dumbledore and the Weasleys. He hadn't wanted to show up empty-handed. He came to a stop, at last, adding to the long line of dark-hooded wizards standing outside of an old church. The line wrapped around the building, it seemed, and it was hardly single-file. Groups of people were silently standing together, the line about five people wide in most places. It was the line to pay last respects to Harry Potter, a line that had been even more crowded since early that morning, according to the reports he and Harry had listened to.

Harry stepped out from behind Draco, a good three or four feet between them. They hadn't said a word to each other since they had apparated into a woody clearing about half a mile back. The last time anything had been said was when Draco told him to remember that he wasn't really dead, and it was only his body he was going to be seeing. Harry hadn't responded, mostly because he hadn't wanted to get into any sort of philosophical conversation before his own funeral. Those kind of conversations were EXACTLY what he needed to avoid. He was too emotionally perplexed and distraught to go on and deal with anything that could continue to depress him. It would have been dangerous.

"Draco? Draco!"

Harry's eyes fell from the sky, heavily, but when he saw who the person was, they rolled back up, distractedly. As Draco was pummeled into a hug from one of his society friends, Harry turned away, completely, turning his back to the street. He faced a small cemetery, where it was easy to see that the gravestones were old and being chipped away by weathering and erosion. And, staring, there, at the cemetery land, with all of those strange structures of limestone propped up in memorial of each one of the persons buried beneath them, it hit him. He was... dead. Was he going to be buried? Truly buried? But... was it not possible to ever be back in that body, again? He was going to have to stare down at himself and say goodbye in front of a huge audience, with people behind him waiting to view his recognizable face and body? How long would he have? Four, five seconds? Ten, if he were so lucky?

Wanting to be as far away from the masses as he could be, Harry looked over his shoulder to see if he was being watched. He wasn't. He walked toward the waist-high, black iron fence and placed his hands on two of the supporting rails. He pushed his weight up, with his arms, replaced one of his hands with his right foot, got a steady balance, and then pulled the other leg up. He hopped over the fence, his eyes set on one gravestone in particular. It was the brightest one, and the only one that had flowers on it, as if that person were still being remembered, even though the stone was extremely old.

A few seconds later, Harry stood at the foot of this grave, and he sunk down onto his knees. His hands landed down, and he leaned over, his hands and palms heavily resting on the damp ground. Here he was, wearing a nice pair of black trousers, and a black button-up shirt, and he was kneeling on wet dirt. But, that didn't matter. He leaned down, with his face, to examine the ground. He never pressed his face down, but he did take in a deep breath. His fingers clutched around naturally flowing, uncut wisps of green grass, and he pulled just hard enough to create the tension of a line. But, he never pulled the grass out.

Harry stared directly down at the dirty spaces between the blades of grass, and he felt ill. That was it. That was what life was. When he died, when his body was done with and ready to move on, there was nothing left. No brilliance. No memories. There were no heroes and no memories, and certainly no legends. There was only a coffin buried six feet down in the earth, and in that coffin the flesh of a person, a being, whose time was done. And, that was where he was going to be when he died. He was going to be there, laying six feet under the ground, with no soul, and no sight, and knowing that there was not a point in life. Live. Die. Be a soul. Die with that soul. Live, die? Where was he going to go? _Where was he going to go_?

Where were _any _of them going to go?

Harry was hopeless. The world felt pointless, and he had to say goodbye to himself to realize it. But, he also didn't want anyone being suspicious of him. Very heavily, he pushed himself up, weak to do so. He was miserable. He felt like crying. He just couldn't, not yet. He wasn't sure when he would be able to. He did know, however, that when he was falling asleep that night, he would bury himself in his covers, where no one could hear his despaired cries and curses and fears. He was the safest and truest to himself that he could ever be when he was falling asleep. No one could hurt him when he was crying. He felt invincible when he cried. He figured that the world would have to be conceited to bother him when he was down.

"What are you doing?"

Harry turned around. Draco was standing behind the fence. His friend had been the one who had spoken.

Harry walked back toward the fence, pocketing a wisp of grass into his trouser pocket. He didn't answer Draco's friend, mostly because she was wearing bright pink socks—another damn fashion statement! And, really, at his funeral? Did these people have no sense of... of... of... RESPECT? Stupid bright pink socks! It was like a damn slap in the face! Because he didn't answer her, she turned away and went on about talking with one of Draco's other friends, who had, apparently, joined them. But, Draco was still standing against the fence, his face flushed over with dark shadows.

Harry looked him straight in the eyes, silently asking him what he wanted.

Draco gave a small, upward nod of his head, as if to say hi, and that was all.

Harry placed his hands on the fence, again, and started to push himself up, but Draco started to laugh.

When Harry looked at him, with wounded, vulnerable eyes, Draco pointed toward his right and Harry's left. About ten feet down the line of the fence, there was a small gate. But, Harry wasn't phased by it. He popped himself right back up over the fence, and then plopped, heavily and miserably, right back down next to Draco, slightly bumping into him as he came off of jumping the three or four feet. Draco's hand reached out to sturdy him, and it clutched right around Harry's bony wrist. But, the touch wasn't foreign or awkward, so it lingered. Harry appreciated the support—in both senses of the word and the actual reason they were standing there.

Draco would never have had the nerve to show up to Harry's viewing if the situation would have been the least bit different. Not that anyone knew it, but he had Harry right beside him. That was confidence, enough, to go to the viewing, no matter what anyone said to him or how they looked at him when he walked by. He was on edge, however, and nervous. He was dreading seeing Harry's body. He lightly snapped, "Could you have possibly stayed out of the dirt?"

Harry looked down at his knees, where Draco's eyes had fallen. Really, his pants looked horrid. He grimaced and leaned over, brushing his knees with his hands. He brushed them until all of the excess dirt was gone. When he stood back up, Draco was about fifteen feet ahead of him. Harry had stayed behind, by himself. He walked over and stood beside Draco, again.

The closer the line took them toward the door, the more awkward and shaky Harry became.

When they were in the church, at last, a good hour later, Draco turned to Harry. They hadn't spoken much, mostly because Draco had no idea what he could have possibly said to Harry, or what would be appropriate to say to Harry in the current situation, and Harry said nothing, because, well, he was in a fog. Dealing with death was hard enough. It was a numb-comfort. But, dealing with his own death? It wasn't even possible to describe! He felt physically ill. A huge knot had grown in his throat. His lean body felt starved thin, so thin that he had to tightly clutch his arms over his chest to keep from feeling like he was about to fall over. He was choked up and feeling extreme emotion.

"Malfoy."

Draco turned away from Harry, slowly, to see none other than Ron Weasley, standing there, pale-faced, in a black suit. Guilt hit Draco like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. It was so powerful that, for a split second, he wondered if he had been gutted and left to die. The severity quickly passed, but he was still left feeling drained by even just looking at Weasley's face. He didn't look like the same person—something which was all too familiar when it came to anything to do with Harry Potter, who was now behind him with a different face. Instead of saying anything to Ron, speechless, he held out his envelope, weakly.

Ron looked down at it, and then back to Draco, "Think this is funny, do you? A last chance to come and—"

Draco took a step backward, awkwardly, "No," he murmured and looked away. "No, not funny."

Harry refused to look at Ron after a brief lock of eyes.

"Dumbledore says Harry has left everything... to _you_."

Draco, perplexed, too, and frowning because he didn't know what to say, shifted, "Yeah, he did."

Ron's upper lip curled, and he began to turn red, and very quickly at that, "I don't _understand_, Malfoy."

"I don't, either," Draco immediately returned. "I had the same reaction."

"That still doesn't answer why in the hell Harry left his possessions to you! You were his bloody enemy!"

Draco had different options of what he could next do. He had different explanations. He could take a very passive route and just shrug or say something light. Or, he could be honest. Well, as honest as he could be without making Ron suspicious. He twisted with his body, again, and moved along with the line. As he moved, Ron moved, and the line behind him moved, including Harry. Remembering Harry, he quickly turned around, as he came to another stop with the line. He was on the verge of feeling sick by the lie that he was having to play along with, especially with the amount of pain it was causing Harry, whose expression was fifty times worse than Ron's had been, and fifty times more powerful. His eyes shot back to Ron, "Harry, uh... we dueled, you know. We dueled a lot. We fought a lot. Imagine a hypothetical fight with someone you hardly know. A-and... when you fight with this person, aren't you bound to shout things out, and reveal things, about your own life, and vice versa of him to you?"

Ron didn't answer, just turned around and walked off, disappearing into the grand service room.

Draco noticed that a lot of attention was being directed toward he and Harry. They were who they were. He wished he could have disguised them both, just so no one would bother them. He looked at Harry, again, his chin tilted down. Harry had his arms wrapped over his chest, and he was staring up at the ceiling, his jaw tight and very chiseled. Draco looked up, too, to figure out what it was that Harry was examining, "I see nothing."

Harry closed his eyes, "You don't see the ceiling?"

Draco looked back up, "I see the ceiling. I just don't see what's so fascinating about the ceiling."

"You can _see_ it, though, right?" Harry asked, his voice low and strikingly dark.

Draco looked from the ceiling to Harry, and then back to the ceiling, squinting, "Yes, what's your point?"

"The point?" Harry asked, his attention, at last, giving an appropriate downfall to Draco and the rest of the earthly world he had been tuning out, not purposefully. Numb, though he was, Harry still felt enormously alive in spirit, as that was all he was—at least that he knew of. What he knew of, also, was not much at all. He turned to Draco, completely. Their bodies were close, and they were quietly sharing this conversation. "The point is that we go through life screening things we don't care to look at. We walk into rooms without noticing anything. We look up and see the ceiling, and ask each other what's there, on the ceiling, as if the ceiling, itself, is not something to observe."

Draco knew Harry's mental attendance was altered, but he followed the train of thought, "I know."

"Don't you? Is the ceiling not enough for you to observe, with your eyes?"

Draco turned away from Harry, completely, not at all surprised, "This is very awkward."

"Awkward for you? Sorry. If it helps you any, I'd rather die than be here."

Draco turned back around to Harry, who was standing there, still, his face white and his cheekbones extremely indented against his incredible structure. Personally, Draco didn't understand why Dumbledore had not, yet, arranged for Harry to see his body, to have time alone with himself. He had been looking around for Dumbledore to ask him just that. But, he knew Dumbledore, as well as most everyone else Harry was close to, was in the actual church-service room, the room that Ron had disappeared into, blankly, after Draco had answered him. But, Draco's only concern, now, was Harry. Yes, Harry Potter was beside him, and that was all that counted. He reached his hand back, placed it on Harry's upper back, and nudged him up a foot or so until they were standing side by side, "I hate to tell you this, but you already are dead."

Harry glared at him, hard, angry at the words, "No, fuck. I meant my soul."

Draco looked away, "Oh. Well, in that case, suck it up. You _are_ still alive."

"You're lucky I'm not in a violent mood."

Draco glanced back at him. His left eyebrow hooked up, skeptically, "You're lucky I'm even here with you."

Harry turned away from Draco, annoyingly taking Draco's pointed tone to heart. Draco didn't have to agree to attend the viewing. If he hadn't, it would have been awkward. If Harry had shown up by himself, as Judas Cliffdale, alone, well... it would have been a very lonely and scary time. Judas never knew Harry. Harry had never known Judas, either. Then, again, Harry was sure that many of the people who were there had never met him at all. And, there were, indeed, many people there. It was overwhelming. He didn't know what to do with himself. The massive amount of guilt he felt was choking him, and his body was slowly reacting. He wasn't sure if the final outcome would be worth any of the heartbreak and devastation he was putting others through.

"I've been thinking about this."

Draco turned to his right, confused, "Thinking about _what_?"

"I don't like your attitude, Malfoy," Harry spoke in a monotone. "I'm going to head back."

Wait, what? Draco reached out and tugged at the material of Harry's elbow. Harry had been freaking out, and Draco hadn't noticed it. Sure, Harry had been fidgeting. And, sure, every couple of minutes, he would start blundering some viciously quick words to himself that Draco hadn't been able to make out. But, for some reason, standing in the church, Draco had been caught up in his own thoughts and anxieties about walking by and viewing Harry's body. While doing this, he hadn't realized why he was mainly there in the first place—to keep Harry sane, "What are you—hi, could you save my spot for me? Thanks" Draco praised the two women standing behind him once they nodded.

By the time Draco spotted Harry, they were well out of the church and away from the line, which was still wrapped around the building, filled with spectators and supporters of Harry Potter and his life. Across the small road from the church was Harry. He was standing under a tree, and the tree was planted beside a tall light-post. Harry's body language was all wrong, but Draco kept walking toward him, with his head down, until he stepped up onto the curb of the sidewalk.

Harry itched his shoulder, "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to overanalyze it. I just want to leave."

Draco shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tensing as he did so, "If that's what you want, fine."

With the issue settled, and Harry's mind made up, he turned around and began walking down the street.

Draco followed behind him, by about three feet, until they reached the spot they had apparated to, earlier.

Harry turned around to him, "What good would saying goodbye do, anyway?"

Draco stared at him, "No good."

"Exactly," Harry answered, playing right into Draco's hands. "It's no good, no good at all. I'd be miserable."

"Right, you'd be absolutely miserable."

Harry suspiciously looked Draco over, "Say what you want to say, I know you're holding back."

"Look, as we've both noted, previous to this very moment, you seem to know what is best for you. You know what works for you," Draco gave in, supportively. If Harry didn't want to be a part of his funeral, so be it. There was absolutely nothing he could say, and nothing he could even imagine feeling, that would be justified enough to think it wouldn't be appropriate for Harry not to attend his funeral. Draco had no idea what it was like in Harry's—er, Judas's—mind, now. He just didn't know, and he wasn't going to be thick enough to guess and act like he could even, remotely, relate to what Harry was going through. "If you think this will be bad for you, don't do it."

Harry frowned, pacing back and forth in front of Draco, "I should go. I _know_ I should go—out of respect for myself. Doesn't that make sense?" He asked, turning away and facing a tree. He reached out and lightly brushed his fingertips over the loose, chipped bark. The bark fell down the tree, and Harry withdrew his fingertips. "There's just this nagging inside. I know if I don't go, I'll regret it. Even if I don't go back, now, I still have the option of going to the actual funeral, tomorrow. But, if I do go, I know that something... no—everything—I know that everything is going to be very different, even more-so than it is, already. I don't know what it'll do to me, Malfoy, and there's a part of me that's screaming out _DON'T GO_. And, I usually don't ignore that voice. When I do, I usually regret not listening."

"Whatever the case, it's best not to talk about it, here."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, under his breath, as he pivoted back toward Draco. "_Yeah, _you're right."

Draco watched him, "We need to find somewhere truly safe." To talk. Harry knew what he meant.

Harry just barely nodded, very much agreeing with this statement, "We _really_ do."

Draco wrapped his arms over his chest, looking around in the dark, "But, is there any place safe _enough_?"

And, it hit Harry, "Where is the_ last_ place Voldemort would dare step—the last place any dark wizard would knowingly step?"

"Uh, the _Frilly-Secrets _lingerie section of Madam Malkin's?"

Harry choked a laugh, shaking his head, "Er, no, not exactly." He paused. "Think about it, where is wizardry _shunned_? Forbidden? Frowned-upon—_damned_?"

Draco followed Harry until he stood beside him, looking out over a small hill they were standing upon. The hill was mostly covered in pine-trees, but a very small clearing made it possible for them to look out over the small wizard city before them. He didn't even know what the city was called. All he knew was that it was a town Harry hadn't said anything about. It seemed to have no meaning to him, which was a bit strange because, well, he was Harry Potter. If anything, wouldn't Harry's funeral have been a big shebang somewhere beautiful? Somewhere like Hogwarts, a place he loved, a place as majestic and monumental as Harry's short, overly-matured life had been?

In front of them, in the distance, was the very tiny church they had been in, only minutes before.

Draco's eyes shifted back to Harry, very slowly, only half-opened and hesitant.

They didn't speak, aloud, about the church. But, they did look at each other with the same expression.

It was settled, at least temporarily.

Draco tugged at the back of Harry's shirt, "You still up for that game of chess?"

Harry turned around and hurried down the small slope of the hill, following behind Draco, "Yeah."

"Excellent," Draco enthused, as he turned around to Harry and offered his hand. "My treat."

Harry's eyebrows rose, as he examined Draco's outstretched, elegant hand, "I can apparate, myself."

Draco shrugged, dropping his hand, "Oh, forgive me. I must have forgotten that you do _everything _yourself."

Harry tilted his head, feeling strangely enthralled, "Yeah, and what, pray-tell, _dear_ Draco, do you mean?"

"S'cuse me, _dear_ Cliffdale, but I dare not tell you. I'm sure you can figure it out _on your own_, can you not?"

Harry rolled his eyes and snatched up Draco's hand with both of his, annoyed with the conversation. He was annoyed with it, but he was enjoying it. When Draco became a smart-aleck and threw Harry's flaws back in his face, flaws that Draco so easily called him out on, it made Harry laugh and feel amused. Not only did Draco feel comfortable enough to offer out his hand to begin with, but he also was comfortable enough to share his obvious skepticism about Harry _to_ Harry. This skepticism was often skepticism most people looked past, "God, if it means that much to you, I'll hold your damn hand."

Draco smirked at him, very pointedly, "Don't flatter yourself."

"Never. Oh—oh, right, right, what was that you told me the other day? You're... what was it, Draco?"

Finally, Harry had brought it up. And, what strange timing.

Draco continued to smirk, not faltering, "I told you I was Harry Potter-gay, not Judas Cliffdale gay."

"Oh, my mistake," Harry chimed, under his breath, grinning face-to-face with Draco. "Tease."

"Says you," Draco returned, very weakly, in defense. Immediately, at the sound of the weak insult, Draco settled and flushed. "Shut up."

And, with that, Draco disapparated, leaving Harry alone and laughing—something he hadn't deemed possible for that night. He, too, apparated away. And, when he arrived back at the Malfoy estate, he landed right on his bed, on his back. He stayed laying back, and he wrapped his arms around his chest. His room was bright. All of the candles were lit and glowing off of the walls. He smiled, to himself, and looked over at the closed windows, and then to a new object that had not been in the room, before. It was a bookshelf, filled with colorful, new books. He pushed himself up, examining the bookshelf with wary eyes.

He climbed off of the bed and walked toward the shelf. A piece of parchment was attached to the side.

Harry lifted the note from the side of the bright, shining, polished wood, and let his eyes adjust.

_Judas, thought you might like some books to read while you're away. With love, your father._

Harry folded the note and sat down on the end of his bed, staring at the bookshelf with eager eyes.

Indeed, maybe he was finally about to find the answers he had been waiting for.


	10. It'll Be Worth It

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** I know people are reading, but no one is reviewing! It's a bit discouraging, but, luckily, I'm writing it because I like writing it, and I'm not writing it for reviews, though I wouldn't mind getting some! Anyhow, thank-you, DemonRogue! I appreciate it a lot!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Ten

It'll Be Worth It

Harry fell asleep, that night, without any answers what-so-ever. Originally, he had thought there would be some secret code inscribed in one of the books or a page with some scribbled information on it. Harry had no such luck in finding anything out of the ordinary. After a good three hours, his rouse with the books had turned to frustration, and he allowed himself to fall asleep, although disgruntled and highly annoyed.

The bitter, frustrated, anxious mood carried into the next morning, as well.

Harry was aware that the likelihood of Draco's family eating together was null, now. Like the day before, sharing breakfasts, lunches and dinners, when things were so hectic and traumatic in the world, wasn't appropriate. When he pushed his body against the dining room doors to break into the room to get some breakfast, he expected to see nothing and no one. But, once the door swung open, with his weight as its guide, he felt momentarily stung.

The room was a buzz with the sound of cheerfulness that Harry had never been able to find acceptable at ten in the morning. The curtains were all pulled open, and in result, a nice splash of healthy light-fall shone in through all of the floor-length windows, making him slightly shield his eyes with his right hand. It took about a second for his eyes to adjust, and he lowered his hand, hesitantly, and just looked around, dropping his arms from his chest, in confused awe.

There were at least thirty kids, his age, there, standing over what had once been Draco's dining room table, and some of the kids were milling around. On the huge dining room table were piles of posters and all sorts of supplies—craft supplies, Harry quickly recognized them as. The people in the room were all chattering, laughing and seemingly enjoying what they were doing over Draco's dining table, which had become invisible, buried under all of the bright supplies, posters and colors. He shifted, awkwardly, but began walking away from the door, as to reduce the chance of someone looking over and seeing him.

Harry peeked over the shoulder of a young man, his age, with shaggy, light brown hair and strange jewelry sticking out from the multiple piercing holes he seemed to have. There was a huge pile of rubbery, bright-green wrist-bands piled like a mountain above a bright yellow poster, on which Harry faintly made out the words, "Keep alive..." The rest of the message was covered by the bracelets.

Draco looked up from the end of the dining room table, for the first time in about five minutes. He had been hard at work perfecting a poster. At the masses in all directions from him, he smiled. The organization that he was in, which promoted the safe-keep of young wizards in changing times, had a meeting at least twice a week. The members all opened up their own houses, switching off every week to those who offered. He had offered the prior week to host one of the meetings. He had only remembered when the president, a kid named Clive, had shown up at his door with two cups off coffee and had offered one out. It was almost as if he had realized Draco had forgotten and had only been up to answer the door because he had been thirsty and on his way down to the kitchens.

Thinking of Clive, Draco's eyes traveled. He spotted the president, and then grinned, about to shout something out over the table. But, he stopped in mid-open mouth, because his eyes had shifted toward Clive's left, where a startlingly drowsy Judas Cliffdale was lingering and toying with a green bracelet in his fingertips, with interest. He seemed more amused than confused, which Draco found entertaining, "Breakfast is in the kitchen."

Harry looked up from leaning over the table next to a kid who had grinned a "hello" at him. He stood straight, again. His attention landed on Draco, who he had, apparently, not seen while scanning the room. He must have been hunched over the table for Harry to have missed him. It was hard to miss Draco, by all means, especially that morning. Whereas most everyone in the room still looked half-asleep, with their eyes puffy and their faces without rejuvenation, Draco looked... well, flawless. His skin was glowing, and his hair was soft and pushed back off of his face. And, while, he, too, looked tired, it somewhat suited him. It softened his face, and the morning paleness that usually detracted from people's attractiveness only made Draco appear a tad-bit more radiant, "Oh, right."

Draco watched Harry slip out from between two of his friends and walk behind the rest to get to the door on Draco's side of the table. While Harry walked, Draco used a towel to wipe his hands clean the sticky remnants of the potion he had been working on. And, once Harry walked out from behind the table, with his hands locked behind his neck, and his elbows sticking out, in an apparent attempt to stretch, Draco was greeted with full, meaningful eye contact. He didn't say anything, but he did acknowledge the way his friends had been looking between he and Harry, as if wondering if the tabloid rumors were true.

Harry dropped his arms, as he pressed his back against the doors. He grinned, "Good morning, _lover_."

Draco smirked to himself, as he turned away, "Good morning, Cliffdale."

"Won't you join me for another breakfast?" Oh, the politeness. Harry rolled his eyes at the whole situation, ignoring the giggling of a few of the girls in the room. It was unbelievable, the way the room had fallen somewhat silent when people had seen he and Draco notice each other. He couldn't lie, however. He didn't mind playing off of the rumors. Perhaps the real Judas Cliffdale wouldn't have been pleased, but Harry hadn't a reason to worry about what Judas thought. He had free reign, now. He stopped. "You would think, after last night, you'd have quite the appetite."

Draco laughed, out loud, and then looked over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised, "Sure, _love_, but I've had enough to eat, I think. I'm sure you might agree, after_ last night_ and all."

"That's a boy," Harry retorted back, immediately, and disappeared into the kitchens.

As soon as Harry disappeared, Draco started to laugh very loudly, amused solely at Harry's reaction. He had pivoted out of the room like a burst of wind. He even dared to think he saw a small bit of shock on Harry's face. He didn't care if anyone thought he was a nut, because they had no idea what he was laughing at. Granted, Harry was in Judas Cliffdale's body, but in moments like the one they had just had, when Harry had been walking toward the kitchen doors and they had been staring at each other, it was like he was seeing Harry, again, fully. And, then, when Harry had so quickly retorted before jumping out of the room, he couldn't help but wonder just how much Harry was enjoying being someone else, hard though it seemed to be on him.

"Draco! The bracelets!"

Draco looked up from his towel, which he was toying with between his hands. For a quick second, he had no idea why he was being yelled at, but then he quickly dropped the towel and inched for the cauldron that boiling a nasty shade of red before him. Before he could even so much as touch the cauldron, or grab the stabilizer ingredient to throw into the bustling liquid, the contents flew out in all directions, and Draco could only watch, in horror, until all of the spewing was done, and the dining room was covered in dripping, crimson-colored, syrup-like liquid.

The room was finally silent.

Draco was the first one to move, and he only moved enough to glance down, hesitantly, into the cauldron. Whereas hundreds of bright green bracelets had been born from that very cauldron, that morning, the remaining contents sitting at the bottom of the large brewer were charred and bubbling in a nasty shade of puke-green. Shocked, and knowing he was in deep trouble, he slowly raised his eyes and looked around at all of his startled friends and co-workers, who were all covered in red, as were their projects.

Clive was the second to move, and he hurried toward the cauldron, "_What just happened_?"

Draco caught his breath, and then narrowed his eyes, "I don't fucking know! They weren't even _near_ done!"

"You were the one who was supposed to be watching them, mister Big-Shot Potions Master!"

Draco's hand slid across the top of the cauldron and then lifted it up. He placed his hand, slowly, over Clive's face, covering his nose and mouth. And, when he pulled his hand away, Clive's once-clean face was dripping with the same wet syrup that Draco could feel dripping down onto his shoulders from his hair. He smirked, strongly, and lowered his hand, while Clive openly tried to refrain from hitting Draco, "I wasn't the one supposed to be watching them, Mister I-Use-Glitter-On-Everything-And-It-Just-So-Happens-That-I get glitter on Draco's floor, table, bathroom sink, and_ Draco's hair_ from_ across the damn room_. Even if I was in charge of the bracelets, last time I checked, we started this batch fifteen minutes ago, and it takes thirty minutes for them to form."

"Maybe it was thirty minutes, but you were too busy oogling over fucking Judas Cliffdale to notice!"

Draco rolled his eyes and turned away, "Oh, that's really mature! _Please_, I was the only one _not _oogling." He honestly defending himself. Once everyone had noticed Harry, they had stopped noticing everything else in the room. Judas Cliffdale had that kind of appearance, and Harry Potter had that kind of animal magnetism to him, and everyone had always know that. He turned back around to his friends, who were all looking at the cauldron, as if trying to figure out what went wrong. However, Draco was feeling annoyed. "What kind of word is that, anyway, Clive? _Oogling_? I think the glitter has finally gone to your brain."

"Yeah, well, better glitter than your obsession with being you."

"Oh," Draco lowly replied, and he heard it echoed around the dining room by other people. "I wouldn't bring my ego into this."

"Too late for that, Draco. You bring your ego into everything."

Draco went to respond with something nasty, but he stopped himself short. He didn't know how to reply. He admittedly had an ego. Ego wasn't a bad thing to have. He was born into a certain lifestyle. He was born with certain duties. He was raised with certain duties. He had an arrogance about him, of course. He didn't deny it. But, his ego had never been used so blatantly in front of his organization friends. When he had joined them, his ego had basically been gone, therefore making Draco extremely confused as to what he had been doing that had come off so egotistical, so egotistical that Clive, one of his _friends_, was randomly attacking him over it, "If you suddenly have a problem with me, why don't you just say so? And, after you're done, feel free to get the fuck out of my house."

"I don't have a problem with you, Draco. Just get out of my face!"

Draco stepped backward with squinted eyes. He was extremely confused, "You do have a problem with me, and I have a problem with you having a problem with me and randomly cramming up the nice, friendly vibes with talk about my oh-so-evil and infamous _ego_." Clive said nothing, so Draco looked away from him, highly aggravated with the deterioration of the morning. "You all can decide what you want to do from here. Half of our posters are ruined, but the bracelets are okay. If you want to stay and work, stay. If you want to leave, leave. In the meantime, I'm going to—"

"Wow, what happened in here?"

Draco looked over in the direction of the kitchen doors. His face twisted, "Chew and swallow before you speak, would you?"

Harry stopped chewing, and both of his eyebrows shot up, surprised. What the hell? "I'm sorry?"

Draco scowled and hissed, "It's disgusting." He looked back at his friends. "I'll see you later."

Harry swallowed down his bite of toast, perplexed. He stepped aside as Draco approached him. He walked right in through the kitchen door Harry had been holding open with his back. In the wake of Draco's absence in the room, it was mostly quiet. A few people were looking at him, but most were looking at Clive with shock and upset. Clive, himself, was staring right at Harry with a nasty shade of disgust and disgrace flushing over his sharp features. What had happened? What was going on? And, why was Harry being mentally clobbered to death by this Clive kid, who was seemingly trying to shake him down with eye-contact?

Finally, Harry stood straight and squared his shoulders, coolly, "Was it something I said?"

But, Clive seemed even more angry. He glared, once more, at Harry, turned away, and exited the room.

And, then it hit Harry. Slowly, but surely, acknowledgment washed over him. Oh. He didn't know how he had figured the problem out so quickly, especially when he was usually oblivious to such issues of the heart, but he had. He assumed it was because he had no idea who Clive was, and Clive should have had no problem with him, because they had never met. It had to do with Draco. And, there was one thing about Draco that Harry could understand in terms of the look Clive had been giving him. He started to smile to himself, and he slowly walked back into the kitchen, letting the doors swing to a close behind him.

Draco was leaned over the kitchen island, with a piece of chocolate cake, seething. A fork was hanging from his mouth, and his right hand was furiously ripping off a bright green bracelet from around his wrist. He threw it across the room, where it landed on the ear of a house-elf Harry had seen in the kitchen on a previous morning. He carefully started to walk toward Draco, taking small footsteps. Draco appeared to be very on edge, his nose snarled in anger.

Draco set his eyes onto Harry, "What? _What?_ What do you want? Can't I have ONE MOMENT of peace?"

"Er," was Harry's first startled response. But, then, he stood up tall. "What did _I _do to you?"

Draco looked down at his chocolate cake. His fork dropped from his mouth and landed with a _clank_.

Harry gave Draco a few seconds to calm down, and he did seem to. He picked his fork up, seemingly very weak and helpless. He stabbed it into the cake and lifted a piece of his mouth, sighing with restrained anger. While Draco did this, Harry walked around the other side of the island, cautiously, until he was standing opposite of Draco, watching with light-filled eyes as Draco shoved chocolate cake into his mouth, leaving a small trail of chocolate frosting covering the side of his mouth. He didn't seem to notice that he was being so sloppy with his cake, and Harry hadn't the inkling to tell him. He enjoyed seeing Draco so out of his element, way too much, to ruin it, "Good cake?"

Draco didn't look up, "S'good."

Harry resisted the urge to jump on Draco's mood. He leaned over the island on his elbows, "Okay."

Draco frowned. He swallowed and looked up at Harry, his eyes half-closed, "You sound smug."

"Oh, good, you've noticed. I'm _feeling_ smug," Harry informed him. "Ask me why."

Draco pointed his fork at Harry, very suddenly, "I don't think I like you like this."

"I'm still the dark, brooding, miserable man you love, don't worry." And, he smiled. Draco growled.

"Not so much a man as a boy with issues," Draco replied and looked back down at his cake.

Harry frowned, "All right, if you want to be an arsehole to me, go ahead and bloody be one." He stood straight, again, not pleased. He had been being friendly to Malfoy. It was because he didn't really have a reason to NOT feel some sort of civility to Malfoy, anymore. But, Malfoy was sharp when he was upset. His voice was cutting. His eyes were cold, and even his entire aura seemed to change, completely, from one minute to the next, which wasn't all that ordinary, because auras didn't usually change so severely according to mood changes. Harry, himself, had no one else to be around. He had no comic relief. He didn't have to be the same Harry Potter everyone always knew him to be. Now, he could be more sarcastic. He could be playful. He could be witty. He could be the someone else who had always been taking the back-seat. He had the chance, now, to create something brilliant.

He had the chance to create _someone_ brilliant, "If you want things to be how they always were, _fine_."

Draco watched him walk around the island. He growled, "Okay, fine, just tell me, you bloody drama queen."

"Fuck off, Malfoy. Figure it out for yourself, because you're obvious so incredibly gifted with that, _too_."

Draco threw a piece of cake after Harry, but Harry only flipped him off, "Fuck off! Go on, then! Go!"

The only response Draco got was the closing and opening of the kitchen door. When Harry was gone, Draco stood up straight, paced his hands on the island's tile countertop and tensed his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, lifted one of his hands, and pushed the plate of chocolate cake toward the other end of the table. It went flying off of the counter and disappeared, but he never heard it shatter. And, the plate appeared a couple of seconds later, in the hands of one of the kitchen house elves. He sighed and looked away, grumbling, "Sorry."

Flora, the house-elf Draco had grown up knowing the best, stepped out from beside the kitchen island, her face scrunched up in something that resembled worry, "Master Malfoy, sir, are you okay?"

Draco shook his head from side to side, and then laughed, "I don't know, anymore. Everything is... not right."

"If I may ask, sir, what do you mean, sir?" She asked, as she stood on the tippy-toes and pushed the plate back onto the top of the counter.

Draco grabbed the other side of the plate and pulled it upward so it didn't fall. He didn't mind talking to Flora, and he never had. She had always been his favorite house-elf. He had never treated her with disrespect, mostly because he had grown up with her. They had been born during the same year, and his mother had made sure that Flora's mother was safe and warm while she had been pregnant with Flora. Whereas, most pregnant house-elves were kicked out of whatever house they were serving in, Flora's mother had been treated well with daily visits by Narcissa, and, so Draco had heard, Lucius had stopped by to see how she was once or twice, "It's complicated, and if I could tell you, I would. Everything has just been turned upside down—everything." He motioned her toward a bar-stool, and he sat down on the one next to it, miserably. "I've changed so much, and even dealing with that and all of the shit that has followed it... that has been hard. And, now _this_—now, everything is different."

"Yes, sir," Flora responded, too, eyeing the chocolate cake Draco was, again, poking with his fork.

Draco pushed the cake toward her and summoned her a fork, thoughtlessly, "Cornwell is back."

Flora put her hands up, bashfully, at the cake, "No, sir, I couldn't. But, I would think you'd be happy about your father, sir, being back. You've wanted him back, sir. You was just speaking about him before he turned up."

"Don't be silly, Flora. Help yourself. I can't eat any more than I already have this week, and my trouser buttons would undoubtedly agree," he lightly quipped, pushing the plate at her more forcefully, now with the new fork resting beside it. He rested his cheek on his palm and looked up at the ceiling. "I am glad he's here. But, because he hasn't been, and because of the circumstances as of late—I mean, my father—Lucius, I mean, going missing, and Judas coming to stay, and Potter dying... and, Cornwell swoops back in, and with a new son, and he just... he's just... he's amazing, is what he is, but I can never say anything right. I always feel bitter when I'm around him, and nothing genuine ever leaves my ridiculously foolish mouth."

"But, sir, he's your father. Whatever leaves your foolish mouth, he loves, sir."

Draco's eyes softly found Flora, and he couldn't help but smile. She was a true friend, "You have a point."

"And, surely, everything may seem surreal to you now, sir, but you haven't had much time to adjust."

"I know you're right, Flora," Draco supported her statement, because he was whole-hearted in believing that what she said would happen. He was hoping that, once things had settled down, and time had begun to set, he would become more adjusted to having the extreme changes in his life. He was supposed to be living with Harry Potter. Harry Potter was sleeping in Malfoy manor. Harry Potter was sleeping down the hall from him. These were things he wasn't sure would ever be normal to think about, especially not while things were so tense with Harry, too. He was on a mission. "I'm hungry."

Flora, with the fork in her mouth, froze, and she glanced at Draco with ashamed eyes.

Draco grinned at her, "Oh, would you stop it? The cake is yours! I'm hungry for a snack, not dessert." He slid off of his bar-stool and walked over to the panty. He placed his hands on the two sliding door knobs and pushed them apart. His eyes immediately traveled up to his favorite shelf, which was a couple of feet above his eye-level. Cookies, crackers, white-chocolate covered pretzels, cheese-puffs, and to his utmost snacking delight, there, next to the cheese-puffs, were his—"Flora?"

Flora muffled some sort of answer while she went on eating her chocolate cake.

Draco slowly turned around to her, "Flora, where have all of the cheese-crackers gone?"

Flora swallowed down her bite of cake and turned around to Draco.

Draco followed her eyes up onto the shelf. Draco's favorite snack was cheese-crackers. He'd grab a hand-full, here, and a magic-bag locked sandwich bag-full, there. They had always been fully stacked on cheese-crackers, ever since he was a child. In fact, he couldn't remember a time he had ever gone to the pantry and seen his favorite row of crackers empty. The row was even labeled as, "Draco's Cheese-Crackers". It was almost a shock to see the stash missing, and mostly because the week before, when he had been checking his stash, there had been at least three boxes in there, "I can't believe this! Is it Cornwell, Flora? He did feed them to me when I was little. It's all his fault! I bet he's poisoning Dickie with the same carbohydrate-obsession as he did me! I ought to—"

"No, sir," Flora replied, cutting Draco off, mid-rant. "Well, yes, but... no, sir. He had some, but not all."

Draco closed the pantry doors, very peeved with the way his morning was turning out, "Who, then, Flora?"

"I'm not sure it's my place to say, sir. I dare say he's quite squeamish about what they do to his figure."

"Don't tell me it's Cliffdale." She pressed her lips together, as if to obey him. "Unbelievable! That cheese-cracker stealing, cussing, gorgeous, misguided, poorly-answered arsehole has taken it ONE step too far!" He was just being dramatic, and Flora knew it. She was trying not to laugh, but he distinctly heard her try to choke down a giggle. He felt satisfied with making her laugh, as he headed for the door, pretending to be furious, though he couldn't help but be a little fussed that Harry had eaten all of his crackers. He stormed through the kitchen doors and into the living room, with a self-satisfied half smile.

The living room was still crowded with his friends, and Harry was amongst them.

Draco collided with him, unknowingly, and then pushed him, "You owe me three boxes of crackers."

Harry blinked, but then shrugged, "Don't push me." And, he lightly shoved Draco right back.

Draco stepped forward, again. He reached out, with his right hand, and shoved Harry's chest.

Harry stepped backward, twice. He stayed put and tried to keep calm, "You're being an arse."

"That's all I am," Draco retorted and walked around him. "That's all I'll ever be. I can't change, not I."

Harry frowned, very confused as to what had just happened, "What's that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"It means that I'm not as lucky as you are."

Harry followed him out of the room, closing the door behind him after he did so. He then toyed with his hair to keep from fidgeting, as he got closer to Draco's retreating figure, "Is that what you think, Malfoy! That I'm _lucky_?"

Draco turned around to him and dead-panned, unimpressed, "It's not what I think. It is what I know. You get to nose yourself into my life, and then call _me_ an arse when I get annoyed with your presence! You _are_ lucky. You're not the one who has to have his entire bloody world turned upside down just to accommodate to the one person who he NEVER wanted to accommodate to!" Harry was staring at him, blank-faced. His lips were slightly parted, glimmering with moisture, and he seemed completely surprised and taken of breath, as if he hadn't known exactly what Draco was feeling. "Don't play dumb, either, because you're not dumb, and we both know that! Stop acting like someone else, god damnit, and act like you! I can't take it, anymore! You and your stupid little one-liners—_oh, so glad you noticed I'm smug this morning, Malfoy, lover._"

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he followed right after Draco, "Trust me, you wouldn't want to be around me if I weren't putting on an act."

Draco abruptly spun around, cutting Harry off, "Trust me, Potter," he hissed, nose to nose with Harry. "I _would_."

"I'm not a very nice person, anymore, Malfoy."

Draco stared him down, "You're too nice, still, and it's sickening to know that you think you're not nice."

"You have no idea, Malfoy," Harry hissed, under his breath, getting closer. "You have _no_ idea."

"Answer me one thing, and I'll leave you alone to be as phony as you want to be."

Harry didn't blink, "Ask your brilliant question, then."

Draco felt angry and somewhat hurt. When he realized that he felt hurt, he was angry. He was not supposed to be feeling hurt, EVER, over something that Harry Potter said to him, "You like me, don't you?"

Harry glared, "I like you _enough_."

Malfoy nodded, "You like me, _enough_, even with my horrible traits, don't you?" Harry rolled his eyes. The action sent Draco's mind into a spiral of fury and entrapment, overcome and enthralled by this attitude and cynicism from Harry's eyes. He was shaking his head from side to side, suddenly, seeming very unaffected and untouched. This was no surprise to Draco. But, as Harry went to move, Draco leaned forward on his right foot, reached out, and wrapped his right hand around Harry's elbow, to stop him. Harry looked right back at him. "You're not you unless you're being honest to who you are. Right now, you're just being a little boy in a mask, and I can't blame you. When was the last time you were able to be a little boy? But, when you realize that being in a different body can't change who you are, I'll be waiting."

Harry shook his elbow from Draco's grip, "Are you done, now?"

Draco snorted, annoyed, "Here's my question, then, if that's how you respond to me being honest with _you_."

Harry brushed his elbow off, absent-mindedly, once Draco let go. Inside, he felt way too vulnerable, "What, Malfoy?"

Draco stepped backward, "When are you going to erase my memory?"

Harry looked up from the floor, instantaneously, his forehead wrinkling up. He immediately murmured, "I'm not going to."

"I want you to," Draco insisted, honestly. "I'd rather just believe you'd died than having lost respect for you."

Harry just stared at him, openly, "Why did you have to go off and say something like that, Malfoy?"

Draco didn't answer him, just crossed his arms over his chest, "Because, it's the truth. It's not about you. It's about me. I have enough going on in my life, right now. Adding you—this, even—into the equation just makes things ten times more confusing. You won't even act like you—whoever that may be." He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and shoved his hands down onto his hips and down into his pockets. His fingers curled together and snuggled into the very bottom of his pockets. But, now, Harry was looking very intense and frustrated. "Figure out how you want to do it, and tell me when you do. We'll figure something out—anyway, I'm going upstairs. I have some things to do. I'll see you when I see you, Cliffdale. Don't have too much fun with my friends in there, you hear?"

Harry trailed Draco toward the staircase, slowly at first. There was a huge part of him that knew he was being a huge bother to Draco's life. Draco hadn't asked for any of what had happened to happen, especially not to him. But, Harry did need Draco, now, and he knew he was really going to need him in the future. He shifted, "I'm not going to do it, Draco. The option was gone a week ago."

Draco turned around, gritting his teeth, "I don't want to KNOW. I want to go back to knowing NOTHING!"

Harry went to respond, but the dining room doors opened, and he fell silent. He looked from the doors, where a couple of Draco's friends had milled out, laughing cheerfully over something. They were followed by a couple of others. Annoyed with these people, and all people in general, who weren't dealing with anything of importance to him, Harry turned and strode toward the bottom of the stairs, imitating Draco's usual swagger. When he looked at Draco, it was clear that Draco had noted it. He hopped up onto the first step as Draco did.

Draco hurried up them, but Harry managed to keep step.

"We'll talk about it later."

Draco looked at him, suddenly, "I've made up my mind. You have no choice. If you don't, I'll tell."

"You'll tell?" Harry asked, skeptically, squinting. He tried to sound doubtful, and he tried to be tough.

"Of course not, but I know you aren't going to make me keep up with something I don't want to be a part of."

"Don't be a prat, Malfoy!" Harry suddenly spewed, nearly cutely, and turned toward him. "Always about you!"

"Of course it's about me, dumb-arse!" Draco hissed back, at the top of the stairs. "You dragged me into it!"

"For a bloody good reason!" Harry insisted, following at his heels down the new corridor, trying to keep up.

"There is no bloody reason GOOD enough for this!" Draco tried to express this calmly, but he struggled.

"Okay, fine! I'll drop the damn act."

Draco ignored him, "You won't. You love it too much."

"If I start acting like Harry Potter, don't you think people are bound to notice?" Harry hissed, clutching his head between his two hands. Why couldn't Draco just give him more time to get himself together? To get his act together? No, no! OF COURSE not! He had to be all knowing and perfectly adjusted to the situation, already! He was itching to cry, now, feeling torn in pieces.

Draco spun around, but Harry was already prepared for it, "No, I don't. People are generally stupid, but _we_ are uncommonly smart—brilliant even, if we could work together."

Harry pointed at him, "You'll stay, then? I mean, you won't make me erase your memory?"

Draco looked him over, with a snarl, "The more I think about this, the more I just want to be oblivious."

"Fine."

Draco stared at Harry's upset expression, in awe and shock. It was very sudden, "What are you—"

"No, sod off, Malfoy. Good-night."

"YOU ARE SUCH A BASTARD, I SWEAR TO GOD! Good_night_." The ability of Potter to infuriate, irritate, and confuse him was unfounded and nearly unacceptable. As soon as he had finished speaking, Harry had whirled around, and somehow, in his sweatshirt and jeans, still managed to come off just as powerfully as if he would have had a cloak on. He started walking down the hall, apparently just as annoyed with Draco as Draco was with him.

"I'm coming to your room when you're asleep and hexing you back into pre-Potter land."

"Good! While you're at it, strip off your close and hop into bed with me for one last sexual romp, would you?"

Harry gurgled, "Bet you'd like that so much, wouldn't you!"

"As a matter of fact, I probably would, and you would, too, mister happy hands!"

"They are not happy hands, they are friendly hands, Mister I-lie-about-liking BOYS!"

Draco stuttered for a quick second, "I already bloody explained that to you! Don't throw it in my face!" But, Harry hadn't turned around. He was still walking down the hallway, having dropped the swagger he had been working on. He was walking like Harry Potter had always walked—medium paced and fluid. "You're impossible, I swear! That's none of your business, anyway!"

"You are my business, Draco, remember? You LOVE with me!"

"NO! You resemble Harry Potter in no WAY, SHAPE, OR GOD-DAMN FORM!"

Harry stopped, mid-step, but he didn't reply.

Draco felt sick. The blood immediately drained from his face, and he felt light-headed.

Slowly, Harry pivoted and faced Draco, "You never knew Harry Potter. You could hardly ever _love_ him."

Draco's face was blank, "Good thing. I heard he's emotionally distant—something about his parents."

Harry stepped forward.

Draco stepped backward, "He never would have cared, anyway."

"You're right, he wouldn't have."

"He probably would've made fun of me, too, right?"

Harry shrugged, trying to simmer-down the urge to lunge at Malfoy and... do _something_, "I wouldn't doubt."

"Oh, _Malfoy's GAY_."

"You're not gay, shut up."

"Oh, _Malfoy dreams about me. Hear that, Mud-Blood, Malfoy's in love with me. HA!_"

"You're right, Potter had no feelings at all. He was a machine." There, was that what Draco wanted to hear?

"Yeah, he was," Draco agreed, without apology. "In the end, he didn't even have a true friend, did he?"

Draco watched Harry open his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Emotion washed over his face, instead.

"Harry Potter, always too damn afraid to care about anyone who didn't care for him." Harry dropped his arms from his chest. There was no longer an unfamiliar expression slapped over his face. His expression, on Judas Cliffdale, screamed of Harry Potter. His cheeks were sucked in, his forehead was wrinkled, and his jaw was clenched. Draco paused. "No, not you. All-mighty you. Let me bow, shall I?" Draco bowed toward Harry, stiffly, with his right hand elegantly rising up into the air beside him as he did so. When he stood straight, Harry looked angry. "And, for the record, you're right. I never knew Potter, and now I feel like the most wasted person on the planet, because of the sole fact that I ever HAD wanted to know him. What's wrong with me to have wanted to know Harry Potter as who he was and not who he wanted to pretend he could be—oh, silly me."

Harry was staring at the floor where the heel of his socked foot was shuffling, "Are you done?"

Draco shrugged, "Are _you_ done?"

"With what?"

Draco shrugged, once more, "With being Harry Potter?"

Harry looked around, paranoid, "Would you quit it?"

Draco turned around, "Let me know when you come up with something."

Harry watched Draco walk out of the corridor, in silence. When he was gone, Harry sighed, "_Damnit_."

Draco walked from one end of the house to the other on two floors, before finding himself standing outside of Dickie's bedroom door. The room Dickie was staying in had once been Draco's bedroom, when he was a boy. But, after he turned twelve, he moved out of that room and into one of the larger wings. Ever since, the wing that Cornwell and Dickie were currently staying in had become the deserted wing. Draco mused over how nice it was to walk down the corridor, again, when it was lit and bright, though all of the blinds were closed and the curtains were pulled to keep prying eyes out.

Draco went to knock on the door with his right hand, but before he could, the door opened, and Cornwell appeared. Draco kept his fisted hand up in the air, staring straight ahead. Cornwell said nothing. He had been avoiding Draco, and Draco had been trying to avoid him without admitting to himself that he was doing so. His lips pressed together, and he slowly dropped his hand, nervous. He shifted his eyes away from Cornwell's, quickly, "Is he asleep?"

Cornwell looked over his shoulder, "He's not feeling good this morning."

Cornwell opened the door, a small bit more, and motioned for Draco to join him. Draco stepped forward and shimmied into the doorway, too. He peeked around the side of the door and over toward the huge four poster bed, a bed that he knew Dickie would appear like a shrimp in. The room was dark, because the curtains were pulled to a close, but there were a couple of candles lit on both of the bed-side tables sitting beside the bed. The covers on the bed were hardly a mess, but there was a tiny lump right in the center, and a bright head sticking out on a dark red pillow. With a small smile, Draco looked back at Cornwell, not being able to help it.

Cornwell had already been searching his son's face, but he half-smiled, too, "He was asking for you."

Draco looked back over at the bed, taking a small step in, "Rightfully so."

When Cornwell was closing the door, Draco heard a muffled, "You did your best, Cornwell."

Draco rolled his eyes to himself, not being able to stifle the laugh that came out of his mouth. He knew that Cornwell had meant for him to hear his words. Just as the door closed, and the laugh was uttered, the covers shook, and a small boy looked over at him, through the dark. Without a moment to spare, Draco strolled over to the bed, placed his hands onto the covers and pulled himself up. He grinned as he sunk down next to his little brother, placing his head beside the smaller one.

Dickie's sleepy eyes were so innocent and loving, absorbing Draco's very existence, "Draco?"

Draco faced his little brother, to see that he was rubbing his eyes with both of his small, clenched hands. Dickie was pale, which was alarming, because, like Draco, he had very pale, iridescent skin. Even in the candle-light dimness of the room, it was clear that Dickie was not feeling very well, at all. Even his eyes had lost their sweet sparkle.

Draco immediately pushed himself up, his mouth furrowing into an immediate flush of worried emotion. His heart felt suddenly stricken with the extreme urge to make everything all better and to cure Dickie of every aching pain and dizziness he might have been feeling. But, Draco then realized that there was nothing he could do, and when he was finally sitting up, with his knees pulled in, facing his cover-buried little brother, he reached his right hand out, gently, and lowered it over the small, clammy forehead.

Dickie closed his eyes, and snuggled onto his left side, to face Draco.

Draco leaned over, slowly, and replaced his hand with his lips. He left a small kiss, and then rested his cheek down on the pillow beside Dickie's. There was nothing he could do. He wanted to do everything! He wanted to do SOMETHING! Yet, he couldn't do anything. He was helpless to make Dickie feel better. Draco had always been able to make people feel better when they were sick, either with a joke or some sort of sarcastic, essential Draco-ness that no one could deny. But, Dickie wasn't on the level that his long-time friends were. He was the one person that Draco felt most connected to on earth. They shared the same blood, but there was a bond that existed between them that Draco couldn't explain, deny or push away, and he didn't want to.

Draco had never felt more protective of anything in his life than he did at that moment, consumed in worry and sadness for the smaller, miserable, fever-ridden being. His eyelashes flickered as he examined the tiny, exquisite face opposite of his. Even though Draco had so easily seen an identical being of himself, in Dickie, he was beginning to really notice the minute differences. These differences were so small, but made a huge difference. Dickie's cheeks were rounder, in a different way than Draco's had been. Whereas Draco's face was very angular, and his cheekbones were very high and structured, Dickie's, he figured, were going to be more rounded, and his face was going to be softer. And, Draco started to laugh, softly, amused at this.

Draco had always wanted softer features. He never dared say it. But, when he looked in the mirror, or caught himself in a reflective surface, he couldn't help but notice how he always looked so strong and defensive, and when his nose was sucked in, and shadows washed over his face, he looked downright pissed off. He looked evil, sometimes, and in a way that suggested he had a chip on his shoulder. Perhaps a chip was there, subconsciously, but he didn't invite it to stay and have tea, though it seemed to, anyway. It was a very rude guest—and not so much a guest as an uninvited passerby.

The back of Draco's right index fingertip brushed over Dickie's warm, flushed cheek.

Dickie's dark eyelashes fluttered open, and he pulled his tiny hand out of the covers.

Draco watched the small hand, until he felt it against his cheek, too. Dickie was imitating him.

And, Dickie seemed dazzled by Draco's warm, content, close-mouthed smile, because he imitated that, too.

Draco watched the small boy drift back to sleep, and when he did, Draco wrapped his left arm over the smaller being and hugged him as tightly as he could, in attempt to not wake the sick little boy. He already was extremely fond of Dickie. He had nothing to hide from him. They had a whole life to share, now. Draco had never, necessarily, wanted siblings. He had wondered what it would have been like, but had always been too cynical to think anything good could have come out of other annoying kids in his life. Well, granted, that had been when he was in his self-centered stage, but... the thought had never since crossed his mind, because he had never thought having a sibling was in questionable reality. But, Dickie... Dickie was... superb. Draco had nothing but love, appreciation and adoration for him.

Sometime later, Draco, who had been sound asleep on his stomach, was awoken with a stir.

Dickie was sitting up, beside him, giggling.

Draco peeked at him, drowsily confused. He tried to feel annoyed, but he couldn't.

It was then, half awake, that Draco felt movement on the other side of the bed, the side where no one should have been. Completely unguarded and vulnerable, Draco freakishly turned onto his left side to see what was going on, because Dickie's eyes had enlarged into some state of shock. There was a presence there, so Draco jumped up onto his left elbow to get in front of Dickie. Well, he had started to, but something pinned him down, lightly.

"ARG!"

Draco screamed, his heart pounding, staring up a dark red, wart-covered, off-centered nosed face.

But, as soon as he was on his back, with eyes as large as shrieking teacups, Dickie shrieked with giggles.

The body that had pinned him down was still, and the horrible head tilted, almost innocently.

Draco could hardly breathe.

"Little Draco Malfoy, still scared of his daddy's devil mask."

Draco squinted, but then began to recognize the face looking back into his. Feeling like an utter moron, having screamed so loudly, he couldn't help but be annoyed. He, then, growled, when realization hit him, "BLOODY—damn you!" And, he gave a strong push against the body, which pulled back and sat up on its knees. It was Cornwell, dressed in his flannel shirt and jeans. He pulled the mask off over his head, laughing hysterically.

Draco scurried back onto his elbows, trying to regain composure. He looked from Dickie to Cornwell, and then felt completely breath-taken. They were nearly identical, just with different coloring. Even in the tiniest form of the three relatives, Dickie could hold his own. He was giggling into his palms, as Cornwell leaned over to him. Dickie pushed the covers away from his legs, with Cornwell's help, and then jumped into the waiting arms, which then engulfed him. When Dickie snuggled into Cornwell's arms, he was still giggling, and Cornwell was still chuckling, both of them looking at Draco with amusement that Draco felt embarrassed over.

Draco fell back onto the pillows, resting his hand over his forehead. His heartbeat was stabilizing.

Cornwell's laughter kept on, "You'll be thirty, and that mask will still make you jump out of your skin!"

Draco slowly pushed himself up, with his hands, "You didn't... _scare_ me, per-se."

And, Cornwell immediately smiled, "Draco..."

Draco looked away from him, quickly, trying not to laugh, feeling his cheeks beginning to warm, "I was—"

"You were _pretending_ for Dickie's sake?" Cornwell asked, as if to jump ahead a couple of sentences.

Draco's cheeks were hurting. He pressed his left cheek to his left shoulder, looking away from them. Dickie was still giggling, clapping his hands together, now, sitting in Cornwell's lap, playing with Cornwell's huge hands. Their hands had always been very different, and Lucius had pointed it out to Draco long ago. Cornwell's hands had always been rough and tanned, wrinkled and worn. They were working hands. Draco's hands had always been pale, manicured and graceful. They were hands meant for potion-making and wand-work, not lumbering and manual work. Remembering this, Draco's spirits began to fall, even though they had hardly risen. His joy was washed away, completely, and he began to feel his heart quivering when he realized what he had just done to himself. He had a bad habit of sabotaging good things when it came to being a Malfoy over a Black.

"Draco?"

Draco blinked and looked away from his shoulder, "Huh, what?"

Cornwell was staring at him, and his eyes... were... so... fatherly. They were worried. They were warm.

"You seem a little disoriented, that's all," Cornwell replied, though a bit quietly.

Draco forced a smile, but felt too guilty to look at Cornwell while he did so. He looked at Dickie, instead, but Dickie was now looking at him, too, and didn't seem to be falling for the fake smile, because his nose scrunched, and the side of his tiny mouth twitched, as if he were deep in thought, which was remarkable, because he was only about nineteen months old. Because of this, Draco regrettably had to pull his eyes away from him, too, "I'm fine."

"Do you believe he's fine?"

Draco looked up to see that Cornwell was looking at Dickie, and Dickie was shaking his head.

Draco let out a small laugh, and he glanced at the red mask beside Cornwell, "Did you really have that thing packed in your bag in case you needed to leave in an emergency?" He asked, seriously, lifting his eyebrows. But, Cornwell shook his head and picked it up in his right hand, twisted it around, and seemed to be thinking Draco's question over. "What, then?"

"I left it here. It seems my door would never let the elves in to clean. They refused anyone to enter."

Draco laughed, "You're right, no one could ever get in there. It drove Lucius up the wall."

And, at these words, Cornwell laughed, too, "It was worth it, then," he joked, and when he looked up, Draco didn't seem to be offended, because he was laughing, too, though it was obvious that he was trying to muffle it into his left hand. Noting his son's parallel even-headed approach to the situation, he couldn't help but feel extremely grateful and proud.

Draco was a very intelligent, witty, successful, charming, good-looking young man. But, the part that had kept Cornwell up, tossing and turning, for nights of his life, was the part where Draco was without the warmth that Cornwell knew existed within him. Around the time of Cornwell's departure, things in the manor had been rough. Cornwell and Lucius had always been fighting, though not around Draco, over Draco. Draco had known, though they tried to keep him from hearing. Something had changed within him. Whereas, he had been a warm, understanding, curious, sensitive young man growing up, those parts of him had seemed to fade away, almost over night.

Nothing had ever hurt Cornwell, either, as much as seeing those changes in Draco take him over.

"Draco, I do admire Lucius—your father."

Draco felt gutted.

"I want you to know, after everything, that though Lucius and I had our differences, I've always known him to be a great man." When Draco said nothing, but rather began to stare at him, as if he were a blank slate, Cornwell continued to clarify himself, though trying to do so very carefully. "He raised you very well, and he gave you a great life—he gave you everything you wanted. I will always admire him for that. I will always be grateful that he... took you in as his own. He..." He paused, looked away from Draco, and even Dickie, and turned to look at an empty spot on the wall. "He really loved you, and I know no one could ever have been more proud of you than he was—or is, wherever he may be." After another pause, Cornwell forced himself to look back at Draco, though it elicited a very raw, fierce amount of pain. "I didn't always agree with him on... well, everything, but... when those things were pushed aside, we had our moments, and... well, he's your father, and I admire him for being the father that I know he has been to you. If he'd had been in the business of the Ministry, _only,_ and not of mass-murdering, we might have gotten on pretty well, but... heh—that was supposed to be a joke. Bad timing, I know."

Draco continued to stare at him, and then finally gurgled with his throat, battling his feelings, "Don't do that."

Cornwell immediately looked embarrassed, "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm truly horrible with my comedy—"

"No," Draco interrupted, under his breath, frowning. "No, Cornwell, I mean... Cornwell, you _are_ my father." When he said this, Cornwell looked right down at Dickie, as if what Draco said was wrong, and he didn't think he could hear anymore of it. It was almost was if he were fighting some sort of indigestion. But, Draco was too worked up to not say anything. He couldn't have Cornwell feeling like he WASN'T Draco's father. That was ridiculous. He had raised Draco, even more so than Lucius. But, suddenly, he didn't think he was fit to be noted as Draco's father BY Draco? It made no sense, and seeing Cornwell react ashamed made Draco feel extremely unnerved. The real emotion that was settled beneath this unnerved feeling was pain and hurt.

"I know when I chose Lucius, I hurt you. I know that what I did was... immature. I was trying to choose between two fathers, and... at the time, everything Lucius had to offer was everything that, at the time, sounded good to me. I didn't... I didn't realize that my life was already being chosen. I didn't mean to not chose you, and when you left..." His voice lowered, involuntarily, and cackled. He cleared his throat, but it came off weakly. Instead, he sighed and gave in, sadly. No one was there to experience this but his father and his little brother—two people who didn't CARE how he came off. He was supposed to be... humanly emotional around them. "You're not supposed to call Lucius my _father_ in the way that you do—as if he is so much more important to my existence than you are. He is my father, but you are my _father_."

"By blood, Draco."

"_Not by blood_, Cornwell!" Draco sharply bit back at him. "Not _just_ by blood. You raised me, too."

"I raised you, Draco, and then I left you. Fathers don't leave their sons when they are needed."

Draco went to respond, but then hesitated, "I love Lucius, and I love him with all of my heart." He saw that Dickie was falling asleep, buried deeply, now, into Cornwell's warm, protective, cotton-covered arms. But, Cornwell was listening to what Draco was saying, his undivided attention given to what Draco was saying, though his fingertips were gently stroking, up and down, over Dickie's upper arm. It was an affection that obviously soothed Dickie. Draco continued. "He knows I do, and if he weren't in the business he's in, with the company he has kept, I might like him as much as I love him." He saw a flicker of a smile on his father's mouth, and he knew he had a small flicker on his own. "But, Cornwell, Lucius... is not you. I love him, yes! But, he's very different. _You_ are very different. He's... strict. You're laid back. He's sensitive when he needs to be. You're sensitive when you want to be—which is most of the time. He's... tango-lessons. You're... forget the lessons, go play some Quidditch. He's... spending rainy days in the library, explaining spells to me. You spend rainy days playing Quidditch until you're sopped in mud. He loves me, but has to love other things over me, and it kills him. You love me because I am me. He's... he's... he's... he cares more about You-Know-Who than he does me, Cornwell, and at the time, though he's always made sure I knew he loved me, he offered me a part of his world—the part I had always known existed but had never understood, and then he let me in, Cornwell, and he did it begrudgingly. He didn't want me to choose him, but because I did, it pushed him away even further, because he didn't want me to want to know what it was that kept him... so Lucius _Malfoy_."

"He never made you do anything, Draco. He never forced you."

"I know," Draco agreed, looking down at his opened, wrinkled, light-peach colored palms.

Cornwell was just watching Draco, now, "He is your father, Draco. He'd turn the world upside down for you."

Draco twisted, confused, "Wouldn't you?" He searched the brown eyes, immediately.

Cornwell chuckled, very deeply, under his breath, "In a second, Draco." He paused. "You chose _him_."

"By choosing him, I had never meant to _not_ choose _you_, Cornwell! I didn't know you were going to leave!"

"No, Draco," Cornwell quietly murmured, his eyes very serious. "You _chose_ him because you saw, in him, what no person saw in Lucius Malfoy. You were his son, and that was why you chose him, because you knew him like no one else had ever known him, and you knew it. I knew it. Your mother knew it. And, Lucius knew it. He knew he had you, and I don't mean that in a smugly-possessive way, because Lucius and I never wanted control over you. We both just wanted the best for you. He knew he had you, because he knew you knew he loved you, and he knew your eyes were opened wider for life. He knew you weren't going to settle with me. He always said it, even from the moment you were born—you're meant for power, Draco. Your magic is strong and pure. You may have my blood, but you were raised in the Malfoy manor, with the Malfoy education, with Lucius Malfoy. He's a brilliant man, though I always pretended he wasn't. His influence on you... is extraordinary. You are a Malfoy. He is the father that has molded you—and, if I may say so, again, you _are_ extraordinary, Draco. You weren't a little boy, anymore, who needed the sensitive, laid-back father, anymore, when you made your choice. You were smart, and you made the smart decision."

"Have you been telling yourself these things for the last four years, Cornwell?"

Cornwell looked up from Dickie, appearing extremely startled, "What?"

Draco could feel his face's discontent, "Honestly, the nerve of you, Cornwell Black." Cornwell gave him a look as if to say, "What? What'd I do?" When he let this look surface, Draco felt inwardly furious. Cornwell had been feeding himself all of these explanations! What he said could have, very well, been true when Draco was fourteen. But, the truth was, all in all, that Draco hadn't meant to choose Lucius as a FATHER. He had meant to choose Lucius's guidance over Cornwell's, and only because he hadn't realized that Cornwell's guidance was guidance so perfect that he had never felt guided. It had been a strange period of time, then, when he was fourteen. Things had happened so quickly, and Lucius's work had enthralled him. But, when he had chosen Lucius's path, wanting to learn more about it, Cornwell had... just taken that as if it were Draco's choice to have him thrown away. The morning that Cornwell had shown up at breakfast, stony-faced and pale, with luggage packed in the hallway by the front door, had been the worst morning, EVER, of Draco's life.

Draco pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, "No matter how many times I tell you, you're never going to believe me, are you?" Cornwell was frowning at him, very strongly, so Draco elaborated, leaning forward with determination to get his point across. "Cornwell, I never meant to choose him over you. I never ASKED you to leave. I had just wanted to know more about Lucius's life—"

"Draco, I wasn't going to stand by and watch my son be enthralled with a Death Eater's LIFE. You damn well knew exactly what the option was. You knew that I didn't approve of what Lucius did. I told you no. You told me you could make your own decisions. I told you that you weren't going to like it, and you weren't cut out for his business, and you told me, if I remember correctly, _"Sod off, then! He's still alive! He's not in Azkaban, is he? You-Know-Who will protect him. Everyone tells me I'm just like him, and he seems happy, so who are you to tell me if I'm not cut out for it! I can do anything I want to!"_"

Draco's mouth stayed open, but nothing came out. Oh. He hadn't expected that kind of response.

"Maybe you didn't mean to choose Lucius over me, Draco. Maybe I chose to not stand by and watch you want to be something I despised. Like I said, I left you. When you tell me that I'm a father the way Lucius isn't, it feels wrong to me. I shouldn't have left you, Draco, plain and simple. But, I did. If you'd have chosen NOT to follow in Lucius's steps, though disappointed he may have been, he never would have walked away, defiantly, as I did."

"Bullocks," Draco scratched. "You weren't in the business of murdering people. He had no reason to walk."

"Sure, he did."

Draco was buzzing, now, with annoyance. Cornwell was grinning over this, knowingly, "He really didn't."

"Draco," Cornwell laughed, "if you'd have walked away from him, to me, after he had raised you..."

"What? What would he have done? Disowned me?" Cornwell shook his head. "What, then?"

"He would have been disappointed."

"So, it's not okay for him to be let down, but it's okay for me to let YOU down?"

"Precisely," Cornwell agreed, thoroughly confusing Draco. "I was your papa. He was your _father_."

Draco tilted his head, "And, why would you ever have cared if I disappointed him?"

Cornwell looked down at Dickie, and then slowly back to Draco, "Draco, he loved you as if you were his own son." At this, Draco began to understand, and he looked down. He hadn't thought things through the way Cornwell had done so, which obviously highlighted the maturity difference between them. Draco was a mature young man, he knew, but in terms of adult thinking, he was still learning and grasping, just like everyone else was doing, and had done for centuries. "He took you into his arms, when you were born, and declared you as his. Do you know what kind of man it takes to accept a son he hasn't fathered—especially a man in Lucius's standing? It's unheard of, Draco! Could you imagine what kind of man it would take to look at our situation and think nothing horrible of it? He didn't yell, Draco. He didn't flip out. He accepted you as you, and he demanded you be his son, because he loved you from the moment he ever rested his eyes on you. He took you from your mother, a day or two after you were born, and he walked you all around the manor. He took you around town and showed you off. You were Lucius Malfoy's boy. So, yes, I do care about your father—Lucius, I mean. I never approved of what he did for a living, and I really despised him for it, but, like I said, when I put that aside at the end of the day, he was a great father. I would never have wanted you to turn your back on him, and you didn't."

"Because, I'm your bastard, mistake of a son."

Cornwell's jaw dropped, "Draco!"

Draco just climbed toward the edge of the bed, "It's true, Cornwell. All you talk about is how great Lucius was to take me under his wing, to _accept_ me, as if him having NOT accepted me would have thrown everything into shambles!" He exclaimed, too loudly. When he was off of the bed, he turned around, smoothing his shirt around his sides because it had scrunched up on the move off of the bed. He saw that he had woken Dickie, who was looking at him with upset, startled eyes. "If he wouldn't have accepted me, would you have taken me, Cornwell? Why was it so important that Lucius accept me? If he hadn't, would the world have ended?" But, Cornwell was still too distracted with staring at him, with an expression of utter and total heartbreak, to respond. "And, because you're so indebted to him having _accepted_ me, you expect me to feel the same way! You expect me to see him the way you see him. Well, I don't! YOU are my father. YOU are the one I've been missing. YOU are the reason I'm even in this messed up, twisted lie of a world right now, and I _need_ you to stop expecting me to put Lucius in front of you! I could care less about turning my back on Lucius, and he knows it! He wouldn't care if I did, because he DOES love me, regardless of what debts you have to him for taking me in, in the first place!"

Draco was yelling by the time he had fired everything out of his mouth, nearly in one whole breath, throwing his hands up in all directions as if to make his point come across more official and monumental, because it should have been that way! "Did it EVER occur to you that I knew I had turned my back on YOU? And, because of if, you completely _LEFT_ me? How was that supposed to make me feel, Cornwell? Grateful? Did you want a metal for leaving me with Lucius? What_ the fuck_ makes him so much more bloody great than you! He's a death eater, for Merlin's gay lover's _bloody-fucking_ sake!"

Dickie was staring, from the center of the bed, wide-eyed, as Cornwell joined a standing Draco.

"Draco, don't—"

"No!" Draco interrupted his stunned father. He reached out, with his hand, with a long, pointed index finger, and he shoved it, as hard as he could, against the center of Cornwell's chest. He knew it must have hurt, because he was once poked by Crabbe, lightly, on the chest, and it had hurt. But, this was hard, and Cornwell's face flinched in some sort of reaction to the crime. Draco lifted his finger and pointed it into his father's face, steam spouting out of him from every which way. He could nearly feel the fire burning out of his sneering nose and mouth. "You're right, Cornwell. You _are_ the one who left me. You may not be proud of what I came from, but I am still YOUR son, and you trying to pass me off as Lucius's, because he fucking took me in and gave me his god-damn last name means one thing to me. It means that you're the one with the problem, not me. You are my father, do you hear me? I could care less about letting Lucius down, one because he loves me regardless if I let him down, and two, because he's not my fucking father! I mean—can't you—don't you—why can't you—would you—God, don't you understand that I don't want to let YOU down! All you keep reminding me of is how I turned my back on you, when I never even meant to! If I can't redeem myself, and you refuse to be as much of a father as Lucius is, even though you ARE my father, how can I have any father _at all_? You hate my existence, suddenly, and Lucius is—I don't even fucking know where he is, but I know he's somewhere, and how I know that is another surreal situation that I, too, have absolutely _no _control over!"

Dickie had jumped off of the bed and was standing between Draco and Cornwell, with huge eyes.

It was a shouting match, now.

"What are you talking about? _I hate your existence_? How stupid of you!" Cornwell shouted, haggling.

"It's true! I've learned to live with who I am, and you're still reeling over someone "accepting" me!"

Cornwell was stuttering on words, clearly trying to think of some way to respond. But, he paused. Draco was waiting, expectantly, infuriated. Suddenly, though, a calm voice left Cornwell, "Draco, I'm not ashamed of what you came from. I never have been. It _is_ a big deal that Lucius took you in, even if you don't understand. You can look back on it, now, and say it wouldn't have been a big deal if he hadn't, and you say this while standing in the Malfoy manor, having spent seventeen years here, pampered and prided and having been the joy of the entire family, of your entire society. I dare say this to you, Draco: It's not about what you came from. I got over that a LONG time ago. I got over that before you were born. You are my son, and I love you, _period_. And, I don't want to tell you this, really—"

"Spit it out, already," Draco bit at him, clutching his sides. Oh, this had to be good.

"It was important that Lucius Malfoy be your father, rather than Cornwell Black."

Draco looked him over, very carefully, "I wouldn't have cared, Cornwell."

Cornwell shifted, "As I've just said, Draco, it's easy to say that when you've been raised a Malfoy."

It all circled back to the legend of Cornwell Black, a legend Cornwell had thrown away.

Draco just snorted with an exhausted laugh and began to turn away, "Thank-you for the credit."

"Draco, you have all of the credit I have to give," Cornwell replied, without a snitch of Draco's attitude in his tone. "You can believe what you want to believe about me. You can believe I'm ashamed of you, though you know I am absolutely not. I never have been. I raised you for fourteen years, and you know my reputation, Draco. You couldn't possibly understand what it would have been like to be known as Cornwell Black's son, and neither could I. But, I know what it's like to be Cornwell Black in our world, Draco, and it drove me—ME, of all people—to get away from magic, again, after I worked so hard to be part of it. The last thing I was going to do was bring you down! Nothing was your fault, so why should you have suffered? You were my son, and you had the chance to be raised a Malfoy, and I had the chance to still be with you and raise you, and no one knew!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Dickie's last name _Black_?"

"Yes. Draco. Seventeen years later, yes, his last name is Black."

Draco snorted, again, in disbelief, "What a hypocrite you are! What's so different, now?"

Cornwell didn't seem to want to jump on the question, "Draco, do you love Lucius?"

"Yes," Draco answered, without a second to spare.

Cornwell concluded, quietly. "You love Lucius. He is your father. You're a Malfoy. It's in the past."

"Do you know what's also in the past?" Draco asked, seriously.

Cornwell frowned, "What, Draco?"

Draco glanced at Dickie, forcing a light, care-free smile, "Everything."

Dickie tugged at the bottom of Draco's long-sleeved shirt.

Draco squatted down and gently tugged at the bottom of Dickie's shirt, too, "I love you."

Dickie lifted his arms up, his eyes so sweet, and he cutely murmured, in gibberish.

Cornwell still had his arms crossed over his chest, "Do you feel better now that you've told me off?"

"Only if you feel worse, Cornwell," Draco lightly quipped, but not in a mean way, as Dickie hugged him.

Cornwell leaned down and pressed a hurried kiss on the top of Dickie's head, "I'll leave you boys to your brotherly bonding."

Dickie looked up, tilting his head all of the way back.

Draco grinned, watching Dickie's charmingly perfect aura begin to soothe all negative vibes that had been placed into the room. But, then, out of the blue, he felt a small pressure on the top of his head. It was only when Cornwell had quickly turned away had he realized that he had just been pecked on the top of his head. He lost his balance and fell onto his butt, somehow, while realizing this. The top of his head was buzzing, and his brain was asking his heart if it had just felt what it thought it had felt. Indeed, something had happened.

When he landed on his butt, Dickie giggled and fell forward, freely, onto Draco, being as sweet and baby-boy-ish as humanly possible. He squeezed onto Draco's chest and pressed their noses together. It was like he was immediately distracting Draco, purposely, so he didn't overanalyze or over-process the situation. It was what it was—Cornwell had given both of them a kiss on the top of the head—and, it was strange, because Draco was seventeen, and the last time Cornwell had done that, he was fourteen and very attached to his father, whereas he had just been yelling at him and feeling never-more distant.

Draco felt suddenly alive. He tightly squeezed the smaller being, in awe over the whole situation, "Shrimp!"

Dickie smirked and cutely bit at the tip of Draco's abnormally straight, medium-sized nose, "Awhoop!"

"Ouch!" Draco gaped, and immediately cupped his nose in his palm.

Dickie covered his own nose with his tiny hand, as if they were playing a game.

Draco lowered his hand, suspiciously searching the tinier, teasing eyes, "You're not as innocent as you look."

Dickie shrugged, which confirmed to Draco that Dickie was as innocent as he looked, "Draco?"

Draco kissed the tip of the tiny nose, removing the tiny hand from it, "Shrimp?"

Dickie's small nose twisted, and he said something, in gibberish-like baby-talk, and then rested more contentedly in Draco's arms. It was like he had just said something, gotten it off of his chest, and decided things were all okay. His cheek rested down on Draco's shoulder, and they sat there for a few seconds, hugging. But, Dickie's little cheek pulled up.

Draco followed Dickie's eyes over toward the bedroom door, where Cornwell had been watching, perplexed.

Cornwell quickly cleared his throat, looked away, finished opening the door, and quickly disappeared.

Draco looked back down at Dickie, and then felt trapped, "Don't look at me like that."

Dickie's lips twisted, and he murmured something, very pointedly, staring at Draco, eye to eye.

Draco sighed, defeated by a little boy who couldn't even speak, yet, "I know, I know! But, I needed to get it off of my chest. You understand, don't you?" Dickie blinked. "You would, if you were in my shoes. Luckily, you're not." He sighed and lifted Dickie up, under his arms, struggling to lift him up into the air with his still-tired, weak arms. "You're lucky, you know," he quietly murmured, and lowered his little brother back down to the floor, where he stood in his socked feet and placed his tiny, brilliant hands on Draco's shoulders, as if to support him. "I hope you never have to miss out on any time with him—daddy, I mean." He paused. "I hope you don't mind, shrimp, sharing him with me, now. I know we haven't known each other very long, you and I, but I just want to you know that I love you very, very, very, very much, shrimp, and I'll always be here for you. I promise. And, I know you probably will never remember this, but, if something happens to me, and you somehow recall this when you're older, just know that I want you to have everything I had, and everything I didn't have—and, over these last three years, I have sure miss our papa. I never want you to miss anyone like I missed him. Oh, and I don't want to you miss me, because, well... I'm Draco—no, that sounded arrogant. It really did. Truth is, I don't want you to ever _not_ miss me, even when I've moved away and you're just starting Hogwarts—assuming, of course, it's still around. And, you're really not listening."

Dickie snuggled back against Draco's chest and popped his thumb into his mouth, half asleep.

Draco chortled, softly, and lifted him up off of the ground. He walked Dickie back over to the bed, climbed up onto his knees, carefully, and then managed to place Dickie down, again, in the center of the bed. He pulled the covers up, gently, over the small, lumpy figure. He would go get Dickie some juice and then return back to the room. He didn't want to be around anyone else, that day. Harry was confusing the hell out of him. Cornwell stressed him out. His friends all had issues, and, well, the rest of the wizard world was enflamed in war, gossip and devastation. Yeah, snuggling in with his little brother and sleeping for most of the day didn't seem like the worst idea possible.

When Draco awoke, Dickie was gone. He looked over at the clock to see that it was seven.

Draco snuggled back onto his side, ready to fall back asleep.

But, his eyes flew open and he bolted up. It was seven? SEVEN! Harry's funeral had started at six! He tore out of his covers, furiously, in a hurry, and ran, as fast as he could, ungracefully, tripping on his own agility, until he reached the door. He tore it open and scrambled into the hallway. He ran, as fast as he could, down every wing until he reached the entry hall balcony. He leaned over it, looking for anyone, on his way to his bedroom. To his luck, he saw his mother walking out of the dining room, "Mom!"

Narcissa jumped, "Draco! What are you—"

Draco cut her off, hurrying along the edge of the balcony, as to not waste any time, at all, on his journey to his bedroom, "Judas! Judas, is he here?" She began to shake her head, and that was all he needed to know. "FUCK him!" He shouted, angrily, and scurried off down the corridor, fuming. Fuck Harry Potter to go without him! It figured! Draco had sworn that he would be with Harry, even if Harry hadn't cared or wanted him to be there, beside him. No! No! He had gone WITHOUT Draco! No one had even thought to wake him up? His mother, Cornwell, and practically all of the house-elves knew that Draco had been having issues with Harry's death and had wanted to attend Harry's funeral, but had they thought to wake him?

No!

Draco threw all of his weight onto his bedroom door as he opened it with his right hand. He immediately pulled his shirt up over his head and threw it, somewhere, on the way to his closest. He squirmed with his trouser buttons and zipper. He pushed them down to his ankles and nearly tripped while doing so. He kicked them off, and as soon as he was within five feet of his closet door, it swung open, "I can't believe no one woke me!"

"Calm down, now! I have your suit all ready, Draco."

A suit was thrust into Draco's hands. He tore it off of the hanger, though the garments remained strung in mid-air, due to the spell that was on them. He pulled his pants from the air and they immediately rippled. He pulled them on, decided against the button up shirt, grabbed the shirt he had just torn off, threw it back on, grabbed his suit jacket, slipped his feet into the patiently waiting shoes by the closet door, and then hurried out of his room, sliding his right arm into the right arm-sleeve of the jacket

Draco apparated, there, from the hall, mid-step.

When he landed, seconds later, in the park he and Harry had apparated to, the day before, together, he continued his step, hurrying down the hill whilst fighting with his left arm-sleeve, batting it to behave with the wind, while he tried to slip his hand in. And, at last, he did. He began to run toward the church, somehow managing to do up his buttons as he got closer.

Draco didn't stop running until he reached the doors of the church, having pushed through people, who shrieked when they realized it was Draco Malfoy who had knocked into them. He had heard that those who were not close to Harry Potter, or knew Harry Potter, or were not of any importance to Harry Potter's specific, personal life, were the last who would be considered to fill up the pews at his funeral. But, he was Draco Malfoy, and he was obviously a someone. He was the Minister's son, if not anything else.

He calmly opened one of the huge, grand church doors. He had noticed, the day before, as well, that the doors were exquisite and unusual for such a small, ordinary church. But, the doors, he supposed, were the proverbial windows into the soul. In front of him, in the small lobby, stood very still people, all looking in through glass windows toward the main service room. There was only music playing, now, and Draco didn't know what that meant or how far-along the service was. He just hoped that it wasn't over.

Draco made his way through the first couple of people crowded around, but shortly after people had begun to scoff at the crowd-parting presence, the crowd began to part for him instead of against him. They all noted who he was, which happened to be very convenient for the situation. Once he got through the crowd of silent friends, who, obviously, had come too little too late to be able to catch one of the seats, he stood below a pair of open, glass double doors. In front of him was a still, motionless, mostly silent crowd. People were lined all along the walls, and most of those along the walls were Harry's school friends, mostly all from Gryffindor, but a few from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were there, and, even, as Draco immediately noted, a couple of Slytherins Harry had befriended over the last year or so.

All of the way to the right, toward the front of the room, he could see the end of a small line walking past Harry's casket. The people in front of the line were giving their words to Ron, who was the only person standing next to the wooden and golden, engraved, exquisite casket. The work was incredible and intricate, and Draco was speechless because of it. But, noting that the end of the viewing line was about to end, he hurried in. When he began to walk down the right side of the church, he could feel eyes following him. Each step he took, the intensity increased.

Draco, sweating from having been running, and extremely unnerved from having been late and half-asleep, began to realize, as he saw the last two people standing in front of Ron, that he was being stared at by nearly everyone. He felt his pulse quicken, and he turned his head to the left, to look out, bravely, over the sea of people. And, when he did, he nearly tripped.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes were staring at him.

Draco arrived at the casket, which gave him reason to look away from everyone else. His right hand smoothed over his stomach, where he had his only three buttons buttoned. And, as he looked away from everyone else, he blankly passed over Ron's face, over the flowers, and then—Draco's knees buckled, his shoulders shook, and his right hand, previously having been smoothing his jacket to calm his nerves, tightly clutched over his chest as he turned his back toward the sea of people. His jaw dropped opened, and it stayed locked in place. He could feel his entire body shaking, as he gaped down, shocked and monumentally unprepared for the entire reason he was there.

Draco's left hand clutched over the side of the casket, to steady himself, and he dropped his head and closed his eyes. His right hand left his chest, and he lifted his wrist up to his mouth as it closed together. He placed it over his lips, his body freezing cold. His wrist quickly flipped over and moved aside until his frigid palm clasped over his lips, and his fingertips dug under his jaw. His eyelashes fluttered open, but he could barely see, "Jesus Christ, Potter."

Not only did Draco know he was being watched just because he was who he was, both in society and relation to Harry Potter—his supposed enemy, but he was the last person in line for the viewing, which meant they were all watching him, anyway, and waiting. He didn't know what to do. He had known that the moment had been coming, when he would have to look down and see Harry laying, lifeless, in a casket, but he hadn't realized how emotional it would be, because Harry was still alive, just in a different body. But, no, no. He had not been preparing for this. He had not seen this coming. He had not realized that he would be staring down at the boy he had been battling with for seven years. His face was different. It was—God, it was lifeless.

Draco's index finger hooked over the top of his nose, and he fully clutched the bottom of his face.

Draco, though extremely restless and unwilling to be rushed aside, looked over his left shoulder, slowly, still clutching his face in complete and utter distress. It was distress that he had never experienced. He didn't remember how to fully function. He looked to see if anyone was looking at him, out of hope that no one was. But, everyone was. His eyes flew across the crowd, in a rush, darting from brunette to brunette, until, on the end of the third row, in the center column, he saw a body, hunched over, with its face in its hands, though the eyes were looking straight at him. He opened up his palm some more, immediately, when he spotted Harry, and lowered it about five inches from where it had been clutching his jaw, opened up and clueless, as if to ask Harry what the fuck he was going through, and how he was even able to be in the room. Draco could hardly take it.

In return, Judas Cliffdale appeared to scratch his face off in an attempt to hide an ocean-teared face, his fingertips sliding down, hard, over his face, and rubbing fiercely, with indentation marks following the wake. It was echoed, only once, by a sob that he choked down, but was hardly able to cover. His head then sunk into his arms, and his fingertips clutched at the back of his hair. Judas Cliffdale looked like he was having a break-down, though hardly anyone could have seen him unless they were sitting directly around him, because he was somewhat leaned out into the isle, his head down, which was why Draco could see him.

Draco turned back around to Harry's body, shaking. His right hand joined his left hand, on the side of the casket. His tongue felt swollen. His throat felt swollen, and he wasn't sure he could breathe very steadily, or if his body was going to allow him to. He blew out of his lips, slowly, and began to lean down over the casket, shifting toward his right so his left side was a little more visible to the crowd. He leaned down over Harry and tilted his head until he was looking at Harry, straight on. He leaned down, staring, shaking. He heard Ron draw in a sharp growl, and a couple of muffles in the crowd, but he didn't care. He swallowed a huge lump in his throat, searching the face through newly-cleared eyes.

Draco had never been so close to Harry's face.

His eyes flickered up to the infamous scar, and he felt his fingertips tingle, "You know, Potter, you're the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen in my god-damn life." He stared down at the face, nose to nose with it. "As twisted as it sounds, if no one was watching, I'd kiss you, just to kiss you." His eyelashes flickered a few times, and he choked another huge knot of emotion in his throat. It hurt like a knife to his heart. "I will kiss you, one day," He choked a laugh, but then stopped, abruptly. "Not that I'd kiss you in a romantic way, though I would kiss you on the lips. I'd just kiss you to kiss you. You're the face of you, and... you know how it is—oh, what the fuck, Potter." He leaned up to Harry's forehead, over his scar, and he pressed his mouth down, as lightly as he could, and his right hand's fingertips gently, anxiously, rested over the cold cheek, squeezing his eyes together very tightly. When he pulled his lips away the small, minute fraction of a measurement, he paused. "You're dead, and you still manage make me gay."

Draco dropped a hurried kiss right down against Harry's forehead, again, before he threw himself away from the casket, having to, literally, tear himself away. He knew he would never having knowingly just walked away if a part of him hadn't made him do so. He didn't even look at Ron for the first couple of awkward seconds. All of the chatter in the church had died down. And, when Draco's eyes finally fought to leave the floor and meet Ron's expression, he was being mentally set on fire. But, somehow, God had decided to curse Draco, because a horribly wonderful smile started to take over his lips—and, he tried to resist it.

Ron took a step forward.

Draco blinked, at his own expression, but then lowered his eyes and took a step backward. He had kissed Harry Potter's scar. His arms wrapped over his chest as he pivoted, dazed at what was going on within him. He walked away from Harry, toward Harry—or, er, Judas. There was an empty seat beside him, obviously meant to be there in case Draco had decided to show up. As he walked, stunned eyes found and followed his, but he blew them off. And, when he stood next to the pew on which Harry sat, beside Judas Cliffdale's father, who had come to pay homage to Harry Potter, Draco couldn't help but smile even wider.

Harry looked up at him, silently.

Draco's smile immediately fell. Harry looked like hell. Literally, his eyes and face were bright red from the massive stresses they had been taking on, including still-flowing tears and bright-red trails of fingertips tearing down his face. Draco quickly slid down into the space. Though as he did so, staring at Harry with apprehensive, strained eyes, he realized that Harry, who was now covering his cheeks with his hands, was smirking the most twisted, stunning, Harry-Potter-like smirk, the smirk that he was sure no one else had ever seen. It was strong, and sexy, and completely inappropriate—which made it that much hotter. Draco shyly looked away from him, feeling his cheeks burn. His cheeks NEVER burned! They had always refused to! But, the blood in his face was extremely hot.

Draco's eyes went to shift back to Harry's casket, but people were still staring at him, gape-mouthed. Some of them even appeared offended. What! What! He rolled his eyes, openly, at the lot of people he knew that they knew he was noticing them. But, amongst the eyes in the crowd, he saw one very twinkling, amused pair. He squinted right back. It was Dumbledore. He was looking down over his half-moon spectacles from the front row, in the column of pews to the right of the center area they were seated in. He swallowed yet another lump in his throat. No way was Albus Dumbledore restraining laughter over him having kissing Harry Potter—no one, he figured, had seen that he had kissed Harry's forehead. They had just seen his face disappear toward Harry's. He shivered, looking away from a currently-chuckling Dumbledore.

When Draco's eyes shifted back to his left, to Harry, he felt horrible.

Harry was a mess, still leaned over his knees. But, now his head was covered by his arms.

Draco lifted his left hand up and lightly dropped it down over Harry's upper back, over the dark-gray suit he was wearing. No one was wearing robes, aside from Dumbledore, that Draco could see. It was a wizard town, so Draco didn't know why everyone had chosen to wear muggle formal-wear. Then, again, Harry had been buried in a suit. Remembering this, Draco looked away from the casket, again, with blurry eyes, and he rubbed his hand up Harry's spine, soothingly. He wanted Harry to know he was there. He leaned over his knees, too, and leaned into the side of Harry's face. He said nothing. His hand rubbed up and down, slowly, again, before he retracted his spine, again. His hand moved up to Harry's right shoulder, which was his shoulder closest to Draco.

Draco's hand lightly cupped over the broadness of the shoulder, and he looked back to the casket.

Chatter, eventually, quietly began to work through the huge, beautiful main cathedral room. Harry had since returned to sitting upright, and he stared at the casket, as did Draco. Neither said anything, what so ever, both too overcome with very different thoughts on the situation.

Eventually, Draco blinked away his concentration and focus on the casket before them, and he turned his attention to Harry, turning his head. Harry was pale, which was very worrying, because Judas's skin had been tan and golden only hours before. Draco was sure that Harry had decreased several ranges of pigment, in the last couple of hours, until he nearly matched Draco's complexion. His cheeks were gaunt. His eyes were listless. His lips were painfully dry to even look at, his mouth was open, his hair was a mess, and he looked completely deadened. And, he had every right to be that way. Part of him... _was_ dead, and only feet away.

Draco leaned forward a bit, with his hands folded between his knees. He glanced back, slightly, at Harry, "Come here."

Harry's eyes shifted, blankly, from the casket.

Draco nodded at him, once, and motioned him forward with his index fingertip, "Come here."

Harry leaned forward, until he was shoulder to shoulder with Draco. He could hardly breathe, much less talk.

Draco looked him over, openly, "There's water out there, if you want some."

"No."

Draco flinched. Harry sounded like a groveling rock. He wanted to ask if Harry was okay, but he knew that was an extremely, EXTEMELY stupid question. Of course Harry wasn't okay! No one was okay, least of all Harry Potter! He was sitting at his own funeral. The word _okay_ wasn't even acceptable to use, at all, that day. He didn't know what to say, at all, but he wanted to say _something_. He had so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Harry that whenever he wanted to go, they would go. He wanted to ask how Harry was feeling. He wanted to know if there was anything that Harry needed—like a cookie, or coffee, or anything. But, he didn't. He just ended up staring straight into the red and brown eyes staring back at his, helpless.

They continued to stare at each other for a good couple of minutes, until Harry blinked.

Draco watched him lower his head and fold his hands. He reached, with his left hand, right to Harry's insanely-tight embrace between his own hands. Nervously, he started to attempt to do something—pat the hands, or give them a squeeze, or just a tap, but he didn't. He couldn't. He was afraid Harry would spontaneously combust. He just wanted to give Potter some sort of comfort—affection, even. He couldn't imagine sitting in on his own funeral, when he was alive and healthy—well, the important part of him was, anyway. His fingertips hesitated, and they began to retreat.

Harry unfolded his hands. His right elbow bent back between them, as Draco's hand landed on his own knee, awkwardly. Harry grasped Draco's hand in his own, and was not at all surprised to feel that Draco's hand was just as cold as his was. His fingers, gently, clasped around Draco's long, elegant fingers, and he lifted them up. He moved Draco's hand, with his own, back to his waiting left hand. He pressed the back of Draco's hand into his left hand's palm and slipped the fingers of his right hand between the spaces of Draco's. He squeezed Draco's hand between his own, and then looked at him, without so much as the slightest bit of smugness.

Draco was staring at him, his bottom jaw slightly unhinged. What!

"That was what you were going for, wasn't it?"

Draco continued to stare at him, "Er—well, no, not quite so... well, I was going to _pat_ your hand."

"Oh," Harry quietly returned, and then looked away, beginning to separate their hands. "I see."

Draco's teeth gritted together, immediately, and a couple of seconds later, his hand was free.

Harry looked at him through blurry eyes, "Hand-holding _is_ allowed."

In other words, Harry was sitting through his own funeral, and he needed a hand—any hand.

Draco waited a couple of minutes before even attempting to say anything. Harry had long-since gone back to tightly squeezing his own hands together, his fingers intertwined so tightly. He had his lips resting over his hands, and Draco wondered, silently, if he was praying. He heard the clearing of a loud voice, so he looked up at the podium in the front of the room. It was Weasley. He looked back at Harry, seriously, but Harry never looked up. It was as if he knew what was coming, and who was about to hand him his emotions of a platter.

Draco did what any friend would do. He reached over to Harry's right wrist with his left hand. He wrapped it around the bony wrist and pulled it toward him, so Harry's hands dropped from resting over his lips. He sat up, straight, too, without looking at Draco. Draco's hand went right in for the kill, and demanded entrance between Harry's palms. But, Harry refused. Draco's eyes narrowed, and he elbowed the boy beside him, lightly.

Harry glanced at him, silently.

Draco leaned into his face, "If you don't give me your hand, I will pants you when you stand up."

Harry stared back at him.

It was another minute before Harry gave in, and Draco felt an awkward, hesitant flick at his wrist.

They didn't look at each other as Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's, and they rested between their bodies on the plush cushion that they were seated on. It wasn't a tight hold. It was light, and comfortable, and not awkward, because it hadn't meant to be awkward from the very beginning. But, over the course of the service, whilst Harry was in devastatingly obvious pain, with his eyes usually closed so tightly that it seemed as if they would eventually stay sealed together, Draco's hand became more and more supportive, until he gave in to the uncomfortable awkwardness of holding the other hand and slipped his fingers between the spaces in Harry's, and then he locked them together. From then on, when he squeezed Harry's hand, he REALLY squeezed Harry's hand.

"What's she doing here?"

Draco blinked. He looked at Harry, "What?"

Harry was staring across Draco, with cold, dark, lethal eyes. It was Hermione.

Draco followed his eyes, and they landed on Granger. He looked back at Harry, "I don't know."

"I don't want her here," Harry hissed, furiously, under his breath.

Draco looked around, "No one else seems to notice her."

"I'd spot that smell, anywhere. Betrayal."

Draco snorted with quiet laughter, "I'll ask her to leave, if you really want her to leave."

"Sure, Malfoy, go on up to her and tell her to get out of your sight." Harry rolled his eyes.

Draco smirked at him, but then looked away. He spotted Ron, "Someone's already on it."

Harry leaned in toward him a couple of inches, whispering, "Who?"

Draco pointed.

Harry's eyes followed Draco's fingertip until he was affronted with the front row, where Ron was furiously seething, also having, apparently, noticed Hermione's presence. She should not have been there. Few people knew about her betrayal, very few. Ron knew. Harry knew. Dumbledore knew. Neville Longbottom knew, and Voldemort certainly knew. Harry's blood was boiling so hot that he knew there was a chance he would fly out of his seat, pull out his wand and throw every curse known to wizard-kind at her, just to see her seizure and suffer. But, he saw that the Weasley twins had been informed by Ron that Hermione was unwelcome, and they were walking toward her, in the corner of the room.

Draco's eyes fell upon Harry, again, "What ever happened with her?"

Harry shook his head from side to side, just barely, "I'll tell you later," he whispered.

"Later is booked. We'll be having sex right about then. I suggest you tell me, now."

Harry rolled his eyes up, hard, and then down. He stared at Draco, but he knew his eyes were bright, because he was in awe, "Malfoy," he whispered, leaning in even closer, not being able to resist the urge to respond. And, Draco knew it, too. He was looking for a reaction, though he pulled it off so coolly and effortlessly, looking around, carefully, not paying attention the speech that Ginny Weasley was giving—a very boring speech, one of which Harry kept smirking at and making little tiffs of confusion and disbelief at. The reason they were even speaking at all, now, was because their interest in the speech had worn off, which was saying a lot, because even Harry was tuning it out, which Draco found extremely telling, "I think you need to do yourself a favor, tomorrow, and get checked for STDs."

Draco bit, whispering back, with a forced frown, "STDs?" Was Potter calling him a whore? Unacceptable!

"Yeah, Malfoy—Sexually Transmitted _Delusions_!"

Draco snorted with loud laughter.

Ginny stopped speaking.

Draco looked around, with everyone else, as if trying to find out who the rude noise-maker was, though everyone around them knew that it was him. When people around the room began to settle down, he turned to face straight forward, again, and he looked at Harry, who succeeded in coughing his third or forth laugh into his shoulder. He grinned, too, and looked back at the front of the church, staying silent.

Seconds later, Ginny cleared her throat and began to speak, again.

Draco looked at Harry, and Harry looked back at him. They both went to say something, but ended up laughing, instead. Too loudly, at first, and this was proved by the way heads began to turn, again. This time, Draco even saw Harry turn his around, too, with a look of forced annoyance on his face. Draco tried to force it, too, but halfway into turning his head, he couldn't repress his laughter. He tried, but it still came out in hoarse, embarrassed, glowing noise. He tried to turn it into a cough, as well, but he wasn't that smooth with his coughing skills. He ended up sounding like some sort of laughing horse.

Harry covered his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning down so no one could see him laughing from around the room, though everyone in his pew, the pew in front of him, beside him, and to both of his sides, could easily see him. God, Malfoy was so horrible. The sound was hysterical, and at his own sound, Draco laughed even harder, and he tried to turn it into a coughing episode, but the horribly hysterical dying horse sound was muffled, again, into Draco's arm, as he leaned down, too, having given up on pretending to look for the culprit of the noise. Though, Draco lifted his body back up, and Harry gaped, in awe, a second later.

Draco turned his laugh into a sob, and it was incoherently perfect.

Harry buried his face into his hands and forced his laughter into sobs, as well.

Draco saw eyes around him begin to soften. Seconds later, when everything had returned to normal, he joined Harry in siting, perfectly still, staring straight ahead at the front of the room, though it was obvious that if they looked at each other, they would lose it, completely, which was absolutely not going to happen. He started taking in silent deep breaths, to get himself to calm down. His attention left Ginny Weasley and wondered up onto the ceiling, curiously, where a beautiful painting was on display. He tilted his head, gazing up at all of the colors with interest. He looked away from it, and at Harry, lightly.

Harry had taken that moment to look between Draco and the ceiling, as if to explore what was so interesting.

Draco blinked, Harry blinked, and then they smirked at each other, which had not, at all, been planned.

Harry pressed his lips together and quickly turned his head away

Draco turned his mouth all of the way to his right shoulder, and he pressed his mouth down, hard, so he wouldn't laugh. Over his shoulder, while he tried to repress his laughter, he noticed that a group of girls from Hogwarts were staring at him. Embarrassed, he didn't know quite what to do. But, he swallowed down his excessive amount of desperate laughter and bit into his shoulder, giving them his bedroom eyes. Their eyes widened. He lifted his mouth from his shoulder, winked, and then quickly faced forward, again.

But, beside him, tiny snorts of laughter were leaving Harry's nose and mouth.

Draco glanced at him, quickly. Harry was covering his mouth, his once-red eyes, though still incredibly puffy, were now fading away into a soft pink. He looked like he was ready to explode with laughter. One of his eyebrows was curved upward, and the other was in a deep furrow, as if telling Draco that he really shouldn't have done what he just had. It was then that Draco realized Harry had seen what he had done in the direction of the girls. Because Harry was laughing, Draco started laughing, shoving his hand over his mouth.

Harry wished there was some way that he could silence himself. Suddenly, he pulled his hand away from his mouth and turned his head, for the first time, fully toward Draco, with serious eyes. He felt bad for himself. They must have had temporary memory loss with the current upset of the event. That, or the both of them were just extremely thick-headed, all of the sudden. He unlocked his hand from Draco's and reached into his pocket.

Draco looked down.

Harry pulled out his wand.

They stared at it for a long moment, before they looked back at each other, with pity.

"Silencio," Harry whispered, just as he began on the cusp of hysterical laughter.

For a good five minutes, they laughed, hysterically, sitting perfectly straight, in perfect silence.

Sometime later, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small bit of commotion by a door off to the right side of the grand room. On a whim, he happened to look over, as well. He saw that it was Hermione, who was trying to get past one of the defiant Weasley brothers. And, she did. At this, and not wanting Harry to see her unless she had boils on her and was being toted around with a gigantic B, on her head, for bitch—er, betrayer, he pulled his hand out of his pocket. He lightly pointed it at her, when she was in mid-walk, "_Stupefy_."

The figure fell to the floor, with a gigantic thump that silenced the already eerie room.

Harry saw Draco pocketing his wand, very calmly. More than a few people began to turn their heads to see who had been the genius to stun someone in front of the whole funeral brigade. But, if Draco wouldn't have done it, things would have been far worse off. His eyes flickered down to Draco's right hand, after his wand had disappeared, effortlessly. He made himself nudge Draco, but only very, very, very lightly, as if to say thank-you, "Brilliant."

Draco fully turned his attention to Harry, "I'm thinking about axing her off."

Harry looked away from Draco, knowing that it was an empty threat, even if he was contemplating it. But, Draco had already pocketed his wand, and he seemed content in being an on-looker, just as everyone else had been. At the front of the room, someone had lifted Hermione into the air, magically, and she was being swiftly exited out of the side door. Around the door were three security wizards. Harry felt unimpressed with their services. How had Hermione gotten past them? Then, again, no one expected Hermione Granger to not be welcomed at Harry Potter's _anything._ They had probably let her right through, though Harry was almost positive that Ron must have insisted that she not attend, under any circumstances, and if she dared, she should have been unable to enter the church. He was scathing, mentally, over the nerve of Hermione Granger.

Draco lifted his right leg up, and he crossed it over his left knee, shifting to find a more comfortable position. His calve obnoxiously rested over part of Harry's knee when he was finally settled. His hands smoothed down his black trouser pants, ridding of the wrinkles he had been too distracted to notice. He then looked down at his suit-jacket and began to smooth that out, as well. And, his eyes settled upon a mustard yellow-colored shirt with bright red writing splashed over it, and he swallowed. He had forgotten what shirt he was wearing. He felt a little embarrassed, because he wasn't wearing a button-up under his jacket, like everyone else was. His eyes flickered toward Harry's chest, to see what kind of shirt he was wearing, but, instead, he realized Harry was watching him, with a grin, his eyebrows furrowed in clear amusement, "What?"

Harry looked away from him, shaking his head with surprised eyes. It was these sort of moments that he couldn't help but look at Draco and see the effeminate qualities that most men had but repressed. He was sitting there, smoothing down his outfit and crossing his one leg over the other to get comfortable—at a funeral. His calve was still pressed against Harry's leg, so he looked back at his friend—yes, yes, Draco was, indeed, his friend, if such a word could exceed the usual definition of a friend—and, he reached out with his hand.

Draco watched Harry drop his entire palm over Draco's own knee. Oh! He sheepishly smiled to himself.

Harry gave Draco's knee a small push, but when he let go, there was no change in position. Only a second or so after he let go, Draco uncrossed his leg, hurriedly, and, in an attempt to gain some sort of control over the situation, as if it had not happened, he drew his spine up completely straight and shimmied more contentedly against the very end of the pew, not daring to look back at Harry. Instead of looking the least bit comfortable, he appeared to be as rigid and discontent as if he were nailed to the side of the pew, himself.

Harry just stared at him, as if he were mad. He leaned in, cautiously, grinning, "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Draco met Harry's eyes, innocently, "What? Oh, oh—nothing."

Harry had caught Draco when he was lost in his own world, and it had been _very_ telling. A show, really! Draco had obviously not wanted Harry to see him while he had been doting over his suit, completely uninterested in what was going on around them. He couldn't blame Draco for not wanting to offend him, but he felt strangely happy, strangely uplifted, because Draco had been so disinterested with the funeral, for that moment in time. There were four people, in that room, who knew who he was—himself, the man sitting to his left, Draco, and Dumbledore. But, Draco, who had obviously been shaken when he had seen Harry's body, now seemed... complacent, as if he hadn't a worry. And, it began to occur to Harry, as he leaned forward, on his knees, listening as Dumbledore began to close the service, that he was perfectly alive and well. He wasn't in his body, but... he was still alive, which was why he had the ability to laugh, and the ability to have been seeing the most silly situations as funny, and sharing those situations with Draco Malfoy—who, too, knew that Harry was sitting right beside him.

Draco gave his full attention to Albus Dumbledore, possibly for the first time ever.

When the service ended, Harry and Draco stayed seated, while everyone else began to leave the church. And, when everyone had finally cleared, the only people left were the Weasleys, Dumbledore, Gregarold Cliffdale, Draco, Harry Potter, and... Harry Potter—one of whom wasn't _really_ present for the situation.

Harry followed Draco up, at last, until he was standing. He felt a tap on his shoulder, so he looked over it.

Gregarold was pointing toward the doors, "I'll be outside."

Harry nodded at him, as he and Draco stepped out from the pew and into the isle. He knew where Draco was going, and he knew he was doing it for Harry's sake. Harry followed him down the couple of rows, where some of the Weasleys were standing and some were sitting. Though, Misses Weasley couldn't seem to decide whether to sit or stand, because she kept alternating, an obvious mess. Harry twitched, behind Draco, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to continue to breathe without crying.

But, when they stopped, awkwardly, Harry saw that Ron was looking them over, though not with malice.

"Draco," greeted a calm, though very quiet, voice from behind.

Draco turned his head to the left, and, between he and Harry, Albus Dumbledore had appeared. And, one hand placed over Draco's right shoulder, and he saw the other hand place over Harry's left shoulder. Draco only nodded at him. He had no disrespect for Albus Dumbledore, not that night. When he had spoken, he had spoken so strongly and, without flaw, of the spirit that was—or had been, always—Harry Potter. He had pegged Harry to a T, and Draco had realized that, yes, Harry had been Dumbledore's favorite pet, but it went much further than that. Growing up, Draco had never realized that the relationship between Dumbledore and Harry was similar to that of a grandchild and grandfather—who, practically, had raised him.

"Judas," Dumbledore then quietly expressed, looking from Draco to Harry.

Harry couldn't speak. He was staring at Ron, but he forced a glance at Dumbledore, and then a head nod.

All of the Weasley's, with the exception of Ron, were glaring daggers at Draco.

Because neither Harry, nor Draco, could seem to speak, both now staring at each other, Dumbledore gave them a light squeeze, together, so their shoulders nudged, nearly painfully. It was Draco who went to open his mouth, with a-nearly indignant huff, but it was Harry who met his eyes, first, and mentally forebode him to make the moment any more suspicious than it might have already seemed if anyone had even the slightest doubt about Draco Malfoy and Judas Cliffdale approaching the Weasleys, "It was nice of you to attend with young mister Malfoy, Judas. I think it is safe to say he appreciates your support."

Harry nodded, immediately, as if what Dumbledore spoke was the complete and honest truth.

Draco's left eyebrow nearly hooked up, skeptically, but he repressed it, and trusted Harry to trust Dumbledore, himself. Wherever Dumbledore was going with this was for more eloquent of an expression than Draco could ever dream up—and, that wasn't saying much, because upon arriving in the midst of the Weasley's cold, hard stares, his mind had gone blank. He, too, nodded with what Dumbledore had said.

"I suppose everyone is still coping with the knowledge of you having had the relationship that you last had with Harry," Dumbledore spoke, in an authority-ridden, yet still sensitive-enough, tone of voice. "I also dare say your relationship with Harry was more complex and deep than many of us could have ever possibly imagined, yes?" Draco glanced at him, nodding very solemnly, because what Dumbledore spoke was the whole truth.

Everyone at Hogwarts had known he and Harry had spent hours of the year going off and hexing each other or beating each other with spells and curses, and, sometimes, fists. The surprise that seemed to follow in the wake was strange, to Draco. What had people expected, that he and Harry wouldn't have talked, or yelled, or learned to know more about each other? It was ill-thought to assume he and Harry couldn't have developed a relationship that no one else could have understood—they were, probably, two of the most pressured, misguided boys their age in their entire world, and both had the same ties and connections to the same people, just in very different ways.

"It took courage for you to come here, Mister Malfoy. I don't doubt that Harry would have thought so, too."

Dumbledore looked between them, and then back to the Weasleys, "Molly, Arthur, what can we do?"

"Oh, nothing, Albus," Arthur Weasley grumbled, rubbing his face with both hands. "Nothing, but thank-you."

"Very well. If you don't mind, I'd like to steal Mister Malfoy and Mister Cliffdale from you. I'm very sad to say, I have my own condolences to express to both of them, as I'm sure you have, Molly, and you, Arthur." Meaning, Judas Cliffdale's mother and brother had been murdered, yet no one had uttered a word to him, though they should have, because he had, supposedly, shown up at Harry's funeral, when his own life was so hectic. And, Draco Malfoy, whose father had gone missing, and whose life was, essentially, in quite the bit of danger.

And, when Arthur and Molly realized what Dumbledore had said, they looked at each other, flushed.

After a few exchanged words, with Harry and Draco still having said nothing, and Dumbledore having said everything without having appeared to dominate the conversation, miraculously, the two walked on either side of Albus Dumbledore, up one of the center isles, toward the doors at the very back of the beautiful cathedral. Whilst Dumbledore said nothing to them, at first, Draco peeked across him to Harry, and Harry peeked back.

When they reached the lobby, it was packed.

Dumbledore, at last, looked between them, with very amused eyes, "Don't trip on your way home."

Harry was the only one of them to squint and respond, "Sir," he quickly murmured, reaching out, with his right hand, to find Draco's arm. He found it, and Draco stood beside him as the crowd packed them in and separated the two from Albus, who they both glanced back at, unbeknownst to the other, both with appreciation. They wanted to leave as fast as possible, and it seemed that Dumbledore had obviously known they were feeling this way, and mostly because Harry was on the verge of a break-down. He had stared into Ron's troubled, listless eyes, and it had hurt. The Weasleys had been his family. They WERE his family, and they were devastated. He was gurgling, and, somehow, instead of leading Draco through the tight crowd, he was being led, his wrist being tightly gripped by another hand.

It was Draco who led them to the exit doors, and Harry who nearly jumped out, tugging Draco along.

They didn't stop moving, and Harry didn't know, exactly, where he was going. But, there were too many people around, and they were taking up his breathing room. He stepped into the flower-bed that lined the walkway to the church. He looked around, noticing that no one had apparated on the church grounds. It seemed that everyone, now, found a more private place to apparate, in case, somehow, prying muggle eyes would see them, which was saying a lot about the state of their world—everyone was paranoid and worried, and having shown up, during the war, at a church, had been fair playing field, and everyone who had attended had, knowingly, put their lives at a huge risk. Attending Harry Potter's funeral had almost been like a fifty-fifty chance of seeing the next day.

Harry reached out and tugged at the back of Draco's suit.

In the dark of the night, Draco turned around, and saw Harry hurrying away, around the side of the church.

A few seconds later, they were standing on the side of the church, shrouded beneath huge, overgrown trees.

Harry turned around from walking. He glanced at Draco.

Draco shifted, but he didn't attempt to say anything. He slid his hands into his pockets, but then pulled them out.

The space between their bodies disappeared, and Harry banged his head down on Draco's shoulder.

Draco shook his head for a small second, smirked, and then clasped the back of the dark head. He smiled to himself, amused that Harry had just done it. He needed someone—anyone. Draco was the only one there for him. He was the only person able to look at Harry, and be there for Harry for who he actually was and what he was going through. A choked sob echoed and vibrated against his shoulder seconds later, as Harry tightly clutched Draco's back, in his obviously struggling hands. And, Draco just rested his cheek against the side of Harry's head, his right hand clutching the other side, tightly. His left arm wrapped around Harry's shoulders, supportively, while Harry's hands tightly clenched together over his shoulder-blades. Draco was an open shoulder, and he always would be.

He always wanted to be. He dropped his mouth right against Harry's ear and squeezed him in a supportively important embrace, "S'all right. It'll be worth it." He _hoped_.


	11. Empty Threats

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** Sorry about the wait on this chapter! It has been a little over a month since chapter ten, but I hope eleven makes it up to you guys! I hope you get some answers you might have been looking for, too! I took my time writing this chapter, and I did have a couple of times I had to write through a block, so... well, anyway, enjoy it! It's also a bit longer than the other chapters, about 40 pages. But, thank-you guys so much for the reviews! They REALLY helped me, and I really enjoyed them! Thanks, and I'm glad you guys let me know that you're reading. I appreciated it **a lot**! I figured I should get this out as soon as possible, so I might re-update later with thanks to you guys! Anyway, what the hell...

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Eleven  
Empty Threats

A very uneventful two weeks passed by the time that the death of Harry Potter had actually settled in the minds of the adults and older children of families waging a war of which Harry Potter had not been able to conquer. His funeral had since gone down in the history books, and it seemed like, to everyone, Harry Potter would be just that—History. But, little did they know that the effect of Harry Potter's death was torturing one person, in the world, more than any other person, and rightfully so.

Moping about hadn't done it, for Harry. He hadn't slouched his shoulders as he trooped around Malfoy manor. He hadn't complained. He hadn't found someone to take anger out on. In fact, Harry didn't troop around Malfoy manor much at all, except on an occasional trip to the kitchens for a snack. He had also hardly spoken, even to himself, so complaining was out of the question. He hadn't wanted to complain. And, his anger was constantly bordering a thin line between madness and reality. It kept putting him in awkward states of mind, which was mostly why he kept to himself. He had been a very strained, emotional wrecking ball—a wrecking ball that no one should have had to been destroyed by.

It was a Monday morning, and that was all that Harry cared to know, and he only cared because it meant three more weeks until his birthday, but every time he got excited about the idea of his birthday, as he always did in July, the horrid memory of not being _him_ slapped him whole with realization. It was impossible for him to think straight, so he resorted to trying to sleep as much as possible, and given the state of his past few years, the sleep was somehow welcomed. His body hadn't gotten tired of laying around and doing nothing, at least not yet.

What he knew of his body, he was still learning—and, perhaps he was learning too much, indeed.

Draco, on the other hand, spent his two weeks sitting in his library versus his bedroom. He hadn't done much, because things had been changing to such an extreme extent. The organization had closed down, because it was no longer safe to operate in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Going to those places, in the last three weeks, had become of utmost, serious, very real risk. He didn't want to make such risks, because he wasn't an idiot. He had, instead, taken to reading books that he owned but had never laid a hand on, or playing piano, or playing with Dickie, though it was always inside because Dickie wasn't allowed to be seen outside of the manor, or anywhere, at all, with Draco.

Above all other frustrations that Draco had, stood Harry at a staggering height that he never actually was. He and Harry hadn't spoke much, but not because either was harboring bad or negative feelings toward each other. After Harry's funeral, the days had just passed between them. It was almost as if Harry's funeral had been the final cherry placed onto the sundae of depression that had cast itself over the world of magic. Misery had seeped into Draco Malfoy's veins, and the only way he was ever going to get it out was... to...

Draco slammed his book down, on his desk, groaning. He had his left foot pulled up onto his desk chair, and he had been flipping through the pages of said book for the last five minutes. But, everything he read seemed to go straight in through his eyes and went straight into nothingness. His brain didn't want to read, anymore. He didn't want to read about anything! He couldn't absorb any information. He was read-out and driving himself crazy with trying to get his mind off of the helplessness of feeling depressed, defeated and beaten.

With his study's record player playing an enchanting piece of classical music, across the room, the room came across as peaceful. It was a relaxed atmosphere in a relaxed setting. His study was very simple. It was made up of dark woods, greens and browns, and an occasional gold throw pillow was placed here and there. The walls were lined with books. His desk was shining and clutter-free, and the floors were waxed and spotless. But, even in the serenity and calm of the room, he was feeling anxious and agitated. He needed to get out of the manor, but it was dangerous to do so.

A knock came on the door, rapping very softly, almost timidly, "Draco?"

Draco looked over in the direction of the door, surprised. He had just been about to get up from his seat, but he thought better of this and rested back, again. It was Harry. Harry never came to his study. Hell, they had hardly shared a word, much less the same location in the manor. They had seen each other, once in awhile, and had shared a very silent coffee break, that morning, in the kitchens, staring out the kitchen windows while the rain poured down outside. Delighted and pleased. And, curious, too, Draco tried to perk up, "Yeah, come in."

Harry turned the doorknob, slowly. He had given up on staying in bed after he had braved the early morning and met Draco in the kitchen for coffee. There was only so much that he could have philosophized over, while staring at the ceiling above his bed, before he realized just how frightening he was becoming. He carefully peeked his eyes around the door. He had heard the music traveling down several hallways and corridors and had been drawn right to it. It was a classical piano song, and the different tempos were so harmonic.

Harry's eyes locked onto Draco, and he felt a small wash of surprise take him over. He opened the door, a few more inches, and walked in, still looking at Draco with a slight smile. The only morning that Harry had seen Draco in pajamas had been that morning. Of course, Draco hadn't meant him to. They hadn't actually decided to meet in the kitchen for coffee. It had just happened that way. But, Draco was still in a pair of dark gray pajama pants. They appeared to be flannel and quite comfortable, and his sweatshirt seemed to be as equally just. He was lounging on his desk chair, with his one knee pulled up and his arm wrapped around it. He looked comfortable, much more comfortable than Harry had ever imagined him to be, especially in flannel.

But, it wasn't Draco demeanor or clothing that surprised Harry. It was the apparatus on his face. As he closed the door behind him aching body, Harry couldn't help but letting his small smile turn into an obvious one. It was harmless and innocent, but he was certainly curious. He didn't question Malfoy on his glasses, just turned his attention, instead, to the record player in the corner of the room, "Do you mind if I...?"

Draco tilted his head, "I wouldn't have invited you in if I minded, would I have?"

Harry didn't respond to him, just stepped away from the door and looked around. The only time he had been in Malfoy's study, or even seen it, was the night he had caught Draco, rather unfortunately, kissing one of his friends—whom, Harry had noticed, was extremely absent from Draco's life. And, not that Harry could have had any idea of what Draco had been doing during the day, but he hadn't had any run-ins with any of Draco's friends. But, then, again, how could he have? He had barely left his room. He was doing some wishful thinking—no, no, er... damnit!

Harry grimaced and decided to not listen to his inner self speak, anymore, that morning. It was being far too honest.

The study was magnificent. It was beautiful, classic, and seemed, somehow, to suit Malfoy's personality.

Draco watched Harry, intently, from behind white, horn-rimmed glasses.

Harry began to pivot, in a circle, his eyes traveling up and down the rather-circular room, in awe. The ceilings were very high, and the wood above was very shiny and dark. There was something marvelous that captured Harry about Draco's personal study. It was the place where Draco spent most of his time, there at the Malfoy manor. It was where years of Draco Malfoy had passed. It was where all of Draco's passions and hobbies were his own to explore. It was a private room, and Narcissa Malfoy had told him so the week earlier, in passing. He had asked where Draco was, and she had told him that Draco spent most of his time in his study.

When Harry finished his circle of intrigue, though hardly satisfied with just his vision of the room, not having been able to explore it, yet, he wound up facing Draco.

Draco hugged both of his arms around his left knee, and he rested his chin down on it while Harry walked toward the closest couch that faced his desk. When Harry was sitting down, nothing changed in their conversation. In other words, it stayed silent. But, it wasn't an awkward silence. It was somewhat bearable, really, but Draco's eyes did continue to follow Harry's every move, searching for the tiniest of reasons to have his inner worry be confirmed. But, he didn't need to force himself to be worried about Harry, anymore. Not that he had ever had to FORCE himself to worry about Harry. But, now Harry knew that Draco's worry was there, and it wasn't of sarcastic rhetoric for them to share. He turned his face in the completely opposite direction and looked out the windows to the right of his desk, "Another miserable day."

Harry's eyes had followed Draco's to the window, by default, "A miserable week to look forward to, as well, says the weather channel on The Network."

Draco pulled his eyes away from the window, and they landed back on Harry. His chin was sitting in his palms. He was leaned over his knees. He looked very tired, very pale, and very drained, which Draco began to wonder about, because he had said he spent most of his last weeks sleeping and resting. Yet, still, he appeared weak and dominated by outside forces, "It's about time for lunch. Are you hungry?"

Harry glanced at him, "Possibly—but, would you mind explaining those, first? I'm interested."

Draco was confused, but then Harry pointed toward his face, his eyes fixated on his own eyes, but in a more distant way than usual. And, it was then that Draco remembered his glasses. He quickly clutched his left hand over his face, groaning. Oh, damnit. He pulled the glasses right off, and then rubbed his eyes with his palms, "They help me read better. You know, magnification?" He asked, as he folded the glasses down and placed them on the desk. He glanced back at Harry's glasses-less face, as the other boy stood up from the couch and walked toward the desk, toward him, with a very innocent intention. "Lunch?"

Harry leaned down over Draco's desk and lightly picked up the glasses to examine them. He had never pictured Draco Malfoy to wear glasses, much less glasses that looked like they had come out of the Americana 50s. They were nice, shiny and cool. He unfolded them and turned them around. He slipped them on, hesitantly, as he spotted a mirror behind Draco's chair. His hand glided over the back of the elegant chair, as he passed behind Draco and found the mirror.

Draco turned around in his seat, curious. It became uncomfortable, so he pushed himself up with the most effort he could fathom. He walked up beside and behind Harry, as Harry began to examine himself in the white glasses. At the imagery, Draco couldn't help but laugh. Judas Cliffdale's face wasn't meant for glasses. His cheekbones were too extravagant for the glasses to look right, or even sit right, "I never thought I'd say this to you, but glasses definitely don't suit your face."

Harry was sharing the same sentiments, mentally, and it was frustrating him. He tried to make them look more fitting. He stopped fooling with them and dropped his fingertips from his ears. Instead, he concentrated on Draco, in the mirror. Draco, standing behind him, was a flawless specimen. Even in the mirror, his features were so symmetrical and exquisite, and Harry couldn't find a flaw on his sharply beautiful face. It was almost harmful how Malfoy could look so good. It was almost, too, a wonderment that someone could be born with such prettiness. He smiled to himself and stared right into Draco's laughing, twinkling eyes, "They look funny and awkward on me. By themselves, they are horrid, and..."

Draco grinned, staring at Harry, right back, in the mirror, "And, on me?"

Harry just smiled at him and looked away, pointedly, "They're very _you_, Malfoy."

Draco laughed, quietly, genuinely, watching Harry take them off, "At least you think so. I've been under the impression that everyone else who has ever seen me in them thinks they're horribly cheesy—especially Lucius. My mother isn't fond of them, either."

"Who cares what everyone else thinks, anyway," Harry responded, glancing back at Draco with a laugh. He distinctly heard Draco mutter something, under his breath, about his mother having no choice when it came to the glasses Draco had wanted to choose. He smiled even more, imagining the day Draco had pointed at the white-rimmed glasses and his mother had tried to deter his decision. It was almost worthy of laughter, but his laughter wasn't easily accessible, anymore. He swallowed down a lump in his throat, struggling with the morning, and pulled his eyes from Draco. "You pull them off."

Draco stayed expressionless as Harry turned back around to him, holding the glasses up beside his face. His brown eyes, though Draco, somehow, still managed to see them as slightly green, though he knew it was only mental, were lacking glisten and luster. They were sad eyes, large and despaired over the topic of glasses. Twitching with acknowledgment, Draco lowered his chin and pried, knowingly, "You miss them."

"I suppose," Harry agreed, as he handed Draco back the glasses. They were close. "I miss everything."

Draco went to say something, but another knock at the door interrupted him. He and Harry both looked over toward the direction. Without having given permission for anyone to enter, the door began to creek open. No one appeared, but in one of the mirrors to the left of where they stood, Draco could see a bright head that was invisible to them from where they stood. It was Dickie, who was shorter than the couch that stood in the way of he and Harry's view of the lower part of the door. He smiled, even more genuinely, and gave Harry a nudge as if to proudly point of the new presence, "Shrimp!"

The door swung wide open, and, at his nickname, Dickie knew he was welcomed. He appeared beside the couch within a matter of a couple of seconds. When he saw Harry, he didn't stop running. He just seemed even more excited. But, he bypassed the chairs, couches, gadgets and gizmos, and went straight for Draco. He only stopped when he had bulleted against Draco's legs and was hugging them so tightly, giggling like a little maniac as Draco bent over him, pretending he was in pain.

Harry shifted his weight onto his right leg, while his left foot began to rub the back of his right. His nose twitched, as he rubbed it with the center of his palm to rid of an itch. He didn't like interrupting Draco and Dickie time. It was almost sacred, and easily so. When Draco was around Dickie, he was so completely different than he ever had been to anyone, at least that Harry had seen. He didn't want to take away any of the time that Draco held so dearly. Besides, he was feeling a strong urge to walk to the kitchen and devour as much food as he possibly could. He cleared his throat, "I'm gonna go find, uh, something to do. I'll see you later."

Draco looked up, from leaning over Dickie, grinning. His smile began to fade, as he watched Harry take route for the door. He quickly pulled himself up, whooshing Dickie, with his hands, toward his desk chair. Dickie had loved sitting in his desk chair, behind the gigantic desk. He would just sit there and stare at everything. He never even struggled and shimmied to get down. He wasn't an impatient child, Draco had discovered, which was a brilliant opposite of how Draco was told he had been when he was a child.

And, when Dickie was sitting on his desk chair, Draco turned around to Harry, "No. Stay for awhile."

Harry turned around, at the door, with a sheepish laugh, "Brotherly bonding, Malfoy. Important time."

Draco almost laughed. Instead, he smirked, hard, "While you've been sulking in your room for the last two weeks, what do you think I've been doing with my time?" When Harry squinted, for the answer, Draco half-turned with his body and motioned his head to a cutely chortling Dickie.

Dickie shrugged at them, knowing he was being talked about. He covered his little eyes with his hands, once Harry started laughing in response to his tiny, innocent, adorable laughter.

And, when the two were laughing, Draco rolled his eyes. He was all-too-used to the automated reaction of Dickie's laughter. No one could resist it. Harry obviously couldn't. He started for Harry, determined. "_Precisely_ my point. I understand his giggling more than I do the English language, right now." He grasped Harry's shoulder, hard, and leaned in, with mock seriousness. "I need some time with my favorite best-enemy, or I'm going to throw myself off of the roof."

Harry's face was hurting, already, as he looked away from Dickie and to Draco. He grasped Draco's shoulder right back. It was warm, "Doesn't sound too bad, Malfoy, to have spent the last two weeks deciphering_ giggles_." And, when Draco stopped, five feet away, with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow, Harry felt oddly like reminiscing about the way they used to be, because something was ringing out, in the room, of familiar, harmless entities.

Draco's reaction was innocent and playful, but it still made Harry happily competitive. He shrugged his shoulders up, starting to laugh as Draco looked away from Dickie, smirking at the small thing as if he were having seriously doting-brother thoughts. It was strangely endearing. But, understanding that Draco was just as much in need of conversation as he was, himself, he obliged to the idea of staying. "If you're really lacking adult conversation..."

Draco dropped his arms, loosely, and gave his hands a clap, appreciative. When his hands were together, he gave a prompt, tiny bow, and then quickly stood straight, "Thank-you, my lord and savior."

Harry moved away from the door, "We should open a thesaurus, reacquaint you with three-syllable words, no?"

"Only after you blow me," Draco bit back, in defense, turning away with a loud, hard snort. "You can be an arse."

"MALFOY!" Harry haggled, half bewildered and half hysterical. And, when Draco turned around, Harry pointed his finger, powerfully, toward Dickie, shaking it in the small being's general area, because Draco didn't seem to see what the point was. Though, when Dickie looked over at his finger, Harry quickly dropped it, as to not make Dickie think he had done anything wrong. He was smirking, hard, as he looked back at Draco, crossing his arms over his chest, expectantly.

Draco walked toward the desk, grinning, "He's not even two, genius. He has no idea what I meant."

Harry followed him, dropping his arms, "Who's talking about him! I'm talking about me! My poor ears!"

"Oh, I see," Draco laughed, as he turned around from one of two chairs in front of the desk that Dickie was currently presiding over, sitting on his knees on the chair and pushing one of Draco's ninety-galleon pens around with carelessness. Once Harry was beside him, staring at him with startlingly light, amused eyes, he jeered. "Blowing isn't your cup of tea, then? I suppose you're the selfish type, anyway. I suppose the hero-complex doesn't stand up in bed. You have to have a flaw, somewhere."

"Oh, here we go," Harry forced a groan, dramatically plopping down on the chair in front of the desk. Draco followed suit, and Harry kept his eyes on the pale-headed boy beside him. He licked against his bottom lip. He saw that Draco caught it, so he turned his eyes away, repressing something that he knew resembled a genuine smile. "For the record, I suggested opening up the thesaurus, because you said you were lacking adult conversation. It wasn't a direct insult, for once."

Draco leaned up over the desk, watching Dickie, "I know. I just wanted an excuse to tell you to blow me."

Harry's left hand snapped over, to his left, and he slapped Draco's arm, "Would you stop it with that!"

Draco laughed, loudly, nursing his arm with his right hand, "God damn! You're a touchy thing, aren't you? Bloody..."

"The language you're going to pass down to him, Malfoy, really," Harry, once more, went to give Draco another playful, gentle slap on the arm. Unfortunately, though Harry had suspected, Draco was prepared, this time. And, when his hand was within three inches of Draco's arm, Draco leapt out of his seat, grabbed his wand off of his desktop and turned around, brilliantly, in his expertly powerful, striking dueling pose. A strong, sharp pressure point was pressed against Harry's throat before he had so much as a blink of an eye.

Harry sheepishly grinned, glancing back to Dickie as Draco's wand rose up his throat until it was under his chin.

Dickie was staring at Draco, his eyes huge.

When Draco had Harry's head tilted back, he couldn't help but smile. He stood over Harry, letting the pressure ease on Harry's throat. He was only playing with Harry, and Harry didn't seem to mind. He rested his head back, fully, against the back of his chair, to look up right into Draco's eyes. Draco leaned down to be closer to Harry's distracting new face. A poke stabbed against his stomach, so he groaned. His eyes shot away from Harry's, and he clutched his left hand over the end of Harry's now-present wand, though it was tightly pressed against his flesh. He dramatically gurgled, from deep within his throat, his eyes flickering back to Harry's, "No, please. Please, don't..."

Harry tried not to laugh, "Tell me why I shouldn't."

"Because," Draco rasped, beginning to sink down, as if he were in massive amounts of pain. "Because."

Harry's left eyebrow lifted, and he grinned, hard, because he couldn't keep it in any longer, "_Because_?" His voice was high, as he started to laugh. "That's what the brilliant Draco Malfoy has to say so I don't kill him? _Because_!" He snorted, but when he saw that Draco was still playing his little scene out, glaring at Harry very pointedly, from sharp, glistening gray eyes, Harry cleared his throat and tried to think of a sad play. He made himself stop smiling, forcing a line to form from his lips. "I mean, er, Malfoy, I hope your pain eats away at your soul for the rest of your life, as you burn in the dark tunnels of eternal hell—burn, enemy, burn."

Draco took in a sharp gasp of air and finally collapsed down over Harry, "Forgive me for my love, please! Oh, the_ pain_!"

Harry rolled his eyes, staring down at Draco, who was now sprawled over his lap, on his stomach. All of his weight was resting on Harry, in the large chair, and Harry was extremely amused. He was still managing to repress his laughter. He glanced up at Dickie, whose excessive, sweet, hysterical hiccups of laughter were echoing over the entire room. He knew exactly what was going on, and that Draco was perfectly okay. He sighed, looking down at Draco's now motion-less body. He sniffled, loudly, and covered his nose with the back of his hand, "Don't leave me, Draco. You're all I have. Oh, Draco. You were my God. What ever will I do?"

Draco was laughing, silently, and he knew Harry could feel, "You could be a little more sincere. _Honestly_!"

Harry gasped, "DRACO! You're alive!" He spoke with undeniable enthusiasm. He tried with all of his might.

This seemed to throw Dickie into a fit. He disappeared from the chair, from the desk, and he reappeared beside it only a couple of seconds later. Finally laughing, out loud, Harry's eyes openly took in Draco's long, lean, toned figure. He had a long torso, like Harry did. But, unlike Judas Cliffdale's body Draco had a very, er, nice derriere, so much so that Harry's eyes widened and he blinked, appalled with himself. Annoyed with Draco's body, suddenly, on his own, his left hand slammed down over Draco's ass, and he squeezed. In result, Draco screamed like a girl and tumbled off of him so fast it was like he had never even moved. This resulted in he and Dickie colliding, Harry was sue the world could have stopped spinning, but Draco's movement would have been fast enough to keep it so.

When Draco landed on his butt, his left hand shot up, and he pressed his wand, this time seriously, against Harry's stomach, "Copping a feel, now, are we, million-time-proclaimed _straight _boy?"

Harry swatted the wand away, "It was right there, Malfoy. What can I say? I couldn't _resist_."

Dickie walked up beside Draco, who was glaring at Harry.

Draco glanced at him, having placed his wand right back against Harry's stomach.

Dickie cutely scrunched his nose at Draco, placed his tiny hand over Draco's and pushed it down.

Harry smiled, watching as Draco let Dickie lower his wand-ready hand, as if he were soothing Draco. Very taken with this very sweet moment, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the two of him. Draco looked at him, very pointedly, clearly annoyed, just to make sure that Harry knew that it wasn't over, and he was only lowering his wand for Dickie's sake. Whether or not this was actually the case, Harry didn't know. He felt slightly squeamish with the situation. He had just slapped—no, no, he hadn't slapped it, he had groped it—Draco Malfoy's arse. He coughed into his left hand, but then quickly threw it away from his face, appalled. Oh, dear god. HE HAD GROPED MALFOY'S ARSE!

Draco watched the sequence, which made him feel extremely pleased. He looked back at Dickie, "You okay, Shrimp?"

Dickie nodded, as he made Draco place the wand in his pajama pocket. Once that was done, he sat down beside Draco.

Harry placed his own wand back into his pocket, and then pushed himself up with his hands, "Well—"

"No, after that grope, you owe me, _at least_, a meal. That's the least you could do. I'm not free, you know."

Harry laughed so hard, out of no where, that it came out like a bomb from his lips, "Malfoy!"

Draco laughed up at him, genuinely. He wasn't mad at Harry. He was beginning to find the situation more amusing than it was awkward. He looked away from Harry and back to Dickie, "Did Daddy bring you down here?" When Dickie nodded and pushed himself up from his small, black pajama-pant covered knees, Draco knew he had to get up, too. He did feel awkward about what had happened on the chair—on the chair! _Listen to yourself, Malfoy! On the chair! Get a grip!_ He sighed, through gritted teeth, and pulled his knees up.

But, a hand appeared about a foot in front of his eyes, so Draco glanced up, hesitantly.

Harry wiggled his fingers, smirking, "I'll remember this day."

Draco's left hand clasped around Harry's, and seconds later, Harry had tugged him up, effortlessly. As soon as he was standing up, his hands pressed against Harry's chest, and he shoved, hard, just to get it out of his system. But, it wasn't an evil-spirited shove. Harry stumbled a couple of feet, his arms crossing over his chest, in a way that suggested he felt violated, as he laughed. It wasn't a cocky laugh, either. He was laughing, and it was embarrassed laughter. His pale skin seemed even paler, and a small bit of abnormal pink coloring had finally returned to his cheeks. He walked toward Harry, not done with him, "You look a little red. Is that magical blush, or are you suddenly so taken with me that, while I'm approaching you, and you keep backing away, you can't help but blush—that's right, I said blush, because you just had, possibly, the most sexual moment you've ever had, and you had it with my brilliantly perfect arse? Draco _Malfoy_'s arse? Oh, this must be a big moment for you."

And, Harry stopped.

Draco stopped, too, and crossed his arms over his chest, "Well?"

Harry's tongue hit the side of his mouth, "Secret option C. My body was so repelled that the blood rushed to my head."

Draco's jaw unhinged, and he started to smirk, half laughing, knowing his whole face was suddenly bright, "_Oh_, yeah?"

Harry nodded at him, stepping forward. The tip of his left index finger pressed against his temple, "_This_ head, Malfoy."

Draco smiled, as Harry stopped in front of him, "I would resort to wittier measures, but I refuse to look at your groin."

"Excellent," Harry responded, smoothly. But, as he stepped away, he looked down at Draco's pants. "Coward!"

"You're such a cocky bastard," Draco cut him off, rolling his eyes. "You're ridiculously obsessed with my penis."

Harry looked at him, incredulously, with very squinted, disbelieving eyes. Strangely enough, he didn't feel at all uncomfortable being jabbed at by Draco. He welcomed it, now. He forced a dramatic sigh, "Oh my GOD, Malfoy, have you gotten checked for those STDs, yet? You're truly having delusions, and I'm not sure I'm okay with that. Unless, in these delusions, I have black hair and green eyes—oh, no, wait, that's _your_ fantasy."

"Blow me, Potter," Draco hissed, as Harry circled him, their shoulders colliding. He saw Harry smile. "No, really, I insist."

They shared a look, but then they both started to crack up at the same time, as they followed Dickie out the door.

When they were finally in the grand entry hall, heading across it to get to the dining room, Dickie was shrieking with horror. Harry had attacked Draco, out of no where, from behind, though he had had reason to. There might have been a few snide remarks Draco made, under his breath, about Harry's anatomy. Therefore, Harry had attacked. Dickie just hadn't been expecting the sudden yell of Draco when Harry had attempted to tackle him to the floor.

To Harry's utmost displeasure, Draco had, somehow, withstood the extra weight and attack of his back, because Harry, having failed miserably, was left staring down, over Draco Malfoy's shoulder, both of them bent over.

It was silent for a second.

Harry's lips screwed up, "Malfoy, what am I doing on your back?"

Draco was laughing, "Do you really want me to answer that right now?"

Harry thought this over. But, instead of hopping off of Draco's back, he latched his arms around Draco's shoulders. Now, they were of the same build and the same weight range. One thing he knew about Draco was that he was, at least, toned. He was lean, but he had subtle muscles—not obnoxiously defined ones, but they were there. He had noticed Draco's arms, in passing, and it intrigued him. If Draco could manage to hold up when being attacked from behind, he could at least walk Harry toward the dining room. He smiled, happily, while Draco silenced himself, obviously waiting for Harry to get off, "Where to?"

Draco's eyes lifted from the ground, bent over. He turned his face to the right, "This is absolutely not going to happen."

"Oh, come on, Malfoy," Harry urged, as Draco struggled to get him to slide off. Harry didn't budge. "Be a team-player."

"I won't be your fucking horse." He wanted to throw in a spiteful _Potter_, but he knew it was too risky. "Get off!"

Harry continued to lounge out over Draco's back, "Oh, come on, now, Malfoy, stop playing hard to get! We both know you'd love for me to ride you."

Draco's struggle was ceased by his own laughter, "I swear to Merlin, Cliffdale, if you don't get off of me right now—"

"You'll what, Malfoy?" Harry asked, challengingly, having shimmied more contentedly over Draco's back, searching for more leverage. He had found it. He kept his arms tightly wrapped around Draco's broad shoulders, and he clutched his knees around the sides of Draco's body to hold himself sturdy. He heard Draco growling, so he leaned his face down, over Draco's left shoulder, instead of his right, where he had been playfully teasing Draco and responding to his growls with tiffs of at-ease mastery. "Come on! Just take me to the dining room!"

Draco looked down at Dickie, who was just staring at him with huge, excited, curious eyes, "Absolutely not."

Harry was looking at Dickie, too, with a huge grin. Dickie saw it and giggled, "See, Dickie wants you to be nice to me."

"I was being perfectly nice to you before you decided to jump me!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake. Do I even want to ask?"

Harry and Draco both looked up from Dickie and to the presence across the hall from them. It had just emerged from the dining room, and it was dressed in gorgeous, silk, dark-brown robes. It was Cornwell, who looked clean-shaven and exquisite, somehow. He always seemed to be that way. Harry had seen him on quite a few occasions within those very last two weeks, and he was always pleasantly surprised. Cornwell was an excellent man. Harry thought very highly of him. He had a great heart, he was intelligent, and he was extremely witty.

Draco hissed, embarrassed. How long had Cornwell been standing there, anyway? He would have hoped not long, but he wasn't sure, "No, you don't!"

"Yes, you do!" Harry spoke over Draco. "Pay no attention to my horse. He has quite the attitude. Now, to the dining room! Cornwell, have you had lunch, yet?" Cornwell was just smirking at them, awkwardly, with his head tilted a bit. His eyes kept flickering up and down, searching from Draco's face to Harry's, and Harry knew it. He smiled when Cornwell shook his head for the answer. "Excellent! If my horse would hurry up, I might have lunch, as well, sometime this century."

Cornwell started laughing, watching as Draco rolled his eyes, "Bit slow, isn't he?"

Draco gasped, looking up at his father, who just grinned at him, easily, like liquid, and then put his hand out, "Dickie."

Dickie ran toward Cornwell, took his hand, and then pulled him away toward the dining room, obviously hungry.

But, Cornwell did look back over his shoulder, "Draco, you_ do_ seem to be his horse at the moment. As he's said, it's your duty to let him ride you."

Harry and Draco both stopped smiling.

Cornwell looked between them, obviously smug, before he followed Dickie into the dining room.

Harry and Draco were left, alone, in the entry hall, completely still and silent, one lounged over the other.

Harry was the first to talk and, nearly, to audibly breathe, "Suppose he was listening, then?"

"Why do you _always_ state the obvious?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you say something, _horse_?"

"The only thing I have in common with a horse is that I'm incredibly, _incredibly_, well hung."

Harry relaxed his head over Malfoy's shoulder, again, laughing without restraint. He couldn't _not _laugh, at that point, "I do love you, Malfoy, really."

Draco turned his head, until he met Harry's intrusive, harmless eyes, "Don't take this to heart, but I love you, too."

Harry cupped Draco's cheek, strongly, and pressed the cheek to his lips, upside down. He pulled back, "Now, giddy-up!"

Draco dead-panned at him. Harry was very affectionate. This was settling in Draco's mind, "This is not happening."

"Oh, Malfoy, it is," Harry simply stated, with glee, as he wrapped his arms back around the shoulders, snugly, because they had since been relaxed. He shifted himself up, though he barely moved an inch. There he was, Harry Potter, having conquered over everything in Draco Malfoy's material life—well, not really. But, he was tightly clutched over the back of his equally-accomplished partner-in-lies, having just pressed the cool, pale cheek to his mouth with strong, nearly possessive fingertips. He wasn't lying. He loved Draco in a way he had never loved another boy, and he had no problem saying it. He highly enjoyed Draco in moments like they were currently sharing. It also spoke—no, screamed—volumes about how their relationship had changed. "Take me to the dining room."

Draco groaned, "I'm never moving, _ever_."

"Want to know something funny, Malfoy?" He saw Draco bite down on his tongue, so he smirked. "I'm not moving, _either_. We can stand here for the rest of our lives, while I dominate you." And, within seconds, he shut himself up and refused to continue talking, because Draco had taken one very brave step forward. Silent and in awe, Harry clutched Draco's shoulders, tightly. He could nearly feel Draco roll his eyes, and he was sure he could HEAR that a sneer was on Draco's face. He wasn't sure what exactly a sneer could have sounded like, but he had related the two!

Draco only took two steps, in total, before he stopped.

Harry loosened his arms and slid off. He was impressed. He landed on his feet but never let his left arm falter from Draco's shoulders. In a friendly, nearly brotherly, way, he draped his arm more sincerely around Draco's shoulders. When Draco's eyes met his, he looked hardly amused. Harry quickly jumped on the situation, before the expression could cloud and build with any more fury than it already had. Bloody hell, those two steps Draco had taken seemed like they had made him feel like a traitor of some sort, "Malfoy," he quickly interrupted the flamingly upset eyes, to disperse the reaction, "you don't know how much I needed you to take those two steps."

Draco blinked.

Harry leaned in the couple of inches, again, overcome. And, before he could stop himself, he had kissed Draco's temple. He knew he would never forget those two steps, and he hadn't realized just how proud and honored he would have felt until he slipped off of Draco and realized _what_ had just happened. Draco _Malfoy_ had just carried him two steps, though it was obvious that the issue Draco had been refuting, and refusing to carry Harry on, was that of Malfoy pride and honor.

Malfoys didn't carry people on their backs, silly though it was. They were aristocrats, and aristocrats, especially Malfoys, were not taught to do such things. "I could kiss you—and I just did, and that's just how much stress you've relieved off of my shoulders." He unwrapped his arm from around Draco's broad shoulders and walked toward the dining room, not wanting to murk up the moment with awkwardness.

"Would you stop kissing me?" Draco asked, pretending to wipe his temple off with the back of his hand.

Harry turned around to him, "No," he lightly laughed, as Draco joined him at the entrance of the dining room. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, my stomach is growling."

Harry let Draco in, first, and then threw, "I bet it is," after him.

Draco turned, halfway, to Harry, from looking at Cornwell. Oh, _Potter_, the great squeamish Potter, "Cornwell?"

Harry tilted his head, suspicious. Draco's mouth was twisted and fiery, "What are you doing, Malfoy?" Dare he ask?

Draco didn't answer him, just looked at Cornwell with bright, gray eyes.

Cornwell was smiling, with sharp dimples that accented such a smile.

It seemed that he enjoyed it when Harry and Draco strolled into a room, together, cocky and arrogant as all hell, separately, and even more so, together. It was something that Draco picked up on, as his attention began to settle back on his father. He had seen himself in one of the many mirrors in the room, when he had walked in, and he had seen Harry's cool swagger, as well. They were, for the first time ever, a team—and, it was an obnoxiously attractive team, he had to admit. Draco sat down on the table, though Harry nudged him off as he walked by. He took a seat, and Draco took a seat next to him, instead of at the end of the table where he had grown up sitting.

After a long silence, during which Cornwell read his morning Daily Prophet edition and Dickie played with a small stuffed animal Cornwell must have brought down for him, Draco spoke up, just because he wanted to. He and Harry had been looking back and forth from the windows to each other, almost with the same expressions at the same times. They both wanted out, somehow. They wanted to be free. They wanted to be able to go outside. They wanted to be able to do so many things.

"Judas is in love with me, and I think you and mum owe it to him to tell him just how beautiful I really am when I leave a room and you're still in it with him. You know, flatter me."

Cornwell's eyes darted up from the paper, comfortably relaxed into his usual chair, "I flatter you enough, Draco, when you're not around. Judas knows. Just the other day, I hijacked his trip to the kitchens and showed him where you used to line up your stuffed dragons and duel them with your quills."

Harry stifled a laugh at the true story, watching between Draco and Cornwell, in awe.

Draco's mouth formed a line and he could feel his cheeks warming. He quickly avoided the topic of discussion, knowing that only humiliation would come out of his childhood stories being told in front of him. He murmured, to Harry, "See that? He just wants you for himself."

Cornwell sighed. He looked at Harry, right on, "Draco suddenly thinks I'm in love with you. Therefore, I must be."

"Sorry," Harry returned, after he swallowed a drink of pumpkin juice, "I'm not interested."

"As I suspected," Cornwell returned, before he looked back at Draco. "There, the air is clear. You may have him, now. Be gentle with him, he bruises easily. Judas, how is that bruise, anyway?" He folded up his paper and worriedly looked away from Dickie, who seemed content and tucked away in his own little world. Harry had banged his arm on a doorknob on one of the kitchen doors, and Cornwell had seen him do it. It was what he was asking about. "Has it healed nicely?"

Harry nodded, rubbing his palm, gently, over his forearm, where he knew the bruise to have been, "It's gone."

"Good," Cornwell responded, and then smiled at Draco. "Your mother has been looking for you all morning."

Draco's eyes shifted away from everyone at the table. The last two weeks had been very hard for him when it regarded his mother. She believed Lucius to be in terrible danger, as did everyone else in their world. He had not been able to look his mother in the eyes. Lucius was perfectly safe, or at least that was the story had Harry had been sticking to. It had been awful to watch his mother suffer with his father's—Lucius's—disappearance. He was living one big lie, and when he thought of his mother, and what he was keeping from her while she went on playing the part of widowed wife, he felt like scum, "Oh."

Cornwell's eyes were fixed on Draco, very gently, very softly, when Draco's eyes bravely found his, "You're worrying her, Draco. She's worried for you."

"Am I not worrying you?"

"Draco?"

Draco only tilted his head.

"I never worry _for_ you. I worry _about_ you. I trust your instincts and your choices, Draco. Whatever worry that I have concerning you is about how things will affect you, not about how you will fall into how those things affect you. I learned long ago that, no matter how hard you try to avoid being stuck in situations you don't want to be in, you end up there, anyway."

Draco squinted, awkwardly. He didn't answer.

Cornwell didn't need an answer. He leaned over, a bit, and looked Draco straight on, "You know more than you let on, Draco. I don't know what you're hiding, and I'm not going to ask, but if you get into trouble, don't doubt that I'll be here for you, but I won't be able to pull you out of the mess you get into."

Draco shrugged, as it was all he could do. Though, inside, his throat was swelled, and he was praying to a greater good that he didn't look as obviously guilty as he felt. A heavy thump fell upon his left foot, which rightfully distracted him. It was Harry's foot, but Draco didn't dare turn his attention to his left, to Harry. He forced a yawn, trying to get out of the situation without Cornwell thinking anything of it. What did Cornwell mean, anyhow? He knew that Draco knew more than he was letting on? Oh, just brilliant. But, when Draco's eyes fell from the intricate ceiling and back down onto Cornwell, he felt a huge gasp of relief come from within him, because Cornwell seemed completely uninterested in whatever it was that Draco could have possibly known and was currently reading the contents of the tag on Dickie's stuffed baby-bear.

Harry's eyes wearily found Draco's.

"Eight o'clock," Draco mouthed.

Harry gave one very, very solemn nod.

They knew exactly where they were going at eight O'clock, and all it had taken, to get them back on track, was one simple sentence out of Cornwell's mouth. It had brought them right back down to earth, to their predicament and extreme opportunity that was laid out on a blank slate. It was waiting for them—for Harry. They had given it time. Harry had been giving it time. But, while he had been laying in bed those two weeks, he hadn't exactly been dreaming about unicorns and Quidditch matches. He had more than a few ideas, though they were all blurry and intertwined in his mind. He was going to share these things with Draco—and, hopefully, Draco could help him make sense of all of these brilliantly unclear, unpromising ideas.

Everything was worth a shot.

Later that night, Harry was the first to disapparate from the Malfoy Manor and descend upon the open space he and Draco had already been a few times before. He hadn't talked to Draco for a few hours, mostly to avoid suspicion on the part of anyone in the house, including the house-elves. He made his way down to the church, by himself, taking his time. He knew that Draco wasn't going to be apparating to the place he had, but rather beside the church, directly, in a small, very hidden space that they had occupied once before.

When Harry arrived, there were people walking into the church in groups. There was a service going on. He had no idea what sort of service it was, but it must have been something important for witches and wizards to be out and attending a public event, even though such a public event was personal. He had the idea that it was a funeral, in which case he was positive that the funeral had to have been of a pureblooded wizard, as that was a safer risk to take for the droves of people milling around in the dark, some of their faces lit by the bright moon in the sky.

Harry looked down at his watch, as he walked into the shadows of the dark, making his way toward the side of the church. He knew Draco would be there, soon, because it was five minutes after eight. He knew that the only reason Draco would have missed showing up was if someone was holding him up. But, into the dark he walked, with opened, alert, bright eyes. He had the idea that something big was going to come out of their meeting, but he had no idea what could have possibly been huge enough of a plan that would actually work. He had been racking his brains, over the last couple of weeks, trying to plan out how he could do things. But, in all of his plans had been a major flaw—this was not a normal wizard they were dealing with.

This wizard was Voldemort. Voldemort, the _Dark Lord_. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—a purely evil _genius_.

Harry didn't have to wait long for Draco. As soon as he shimmied into the three-person space of cleared brush, the space was divided, and a small, nearly silent, _pop_ came out of no where, beside him. His eyes set on the figure, expecting to be instantly greeted with the familiar hair and face. But, there was not a bright head to speak of. Instead, the figure was cloaked. And, as the cloaked head turned to face him, Harry tugged the hood down off of his own head so his face was revealed to Draco in the night. But, Draco didn't do the same thing. He also didn't have to. Harry could see his familiar face, in its moon-light distorted characterization, "There's a service going on."

Draco followed Harry out from the shrubs, quietly, "It's a funeral. I checked the Prophet before coming."

Harry looked over his right shoulder, as Draco walked up behind it. They stood at the corner of the church, hidden in the undoubted shadows, watching the remaining witches hurry into the church for the service. The church, to Harry, spoke of many great riddles in his own mind when it came to witchcraft, when it came to his makeup and his blood. It spoke even more of the fact that pureblooded wizards were even trying to stay out of public if they could help it. And, the only people who were usually out were adults. It was almost unheard of—scarce, even—for people of Draco and Harry's age to be out and about, "Whose service?"

Draco's eyes shifted from the emptied front of lawn of the tiny church. He didn't know the church very well. He hadn't paid attention to the layout when he and Harry had been there for Harry's funeral. He did, however, know that there was at least one other room, a smaller room, that dealt with some sort of church service entity. He had seen a sign, and he had remembered it from the last time they had been there. It had stuck out, for some reason, like a sore thumb.

The whole fact that they were there was _amazing_ to Draco. It was the only place, in the world, where their safety and privacy was the most protected. It was the safest place to converse, even though they would have to keep it as general and random as possible. But, even there, safety was definitely not guaranteed. Draco had been contemplating every irony about he and Harry meeting up at the church, specifically, to talk, in private, about how they were going to... be, for the next unknown amount of time. The ultimate discussion, Draco knew, was going to be in regards to where Harry saw his plans going, and where they would follow those plans, how far, and what those plans were.

"A kid who worked for the Ministry—a Ravenclaw, graduated Hogwarts in ninety-two," he answered, under his breath. His eyes flickered away from Harry's blank, dark gaze. They couldn't really see each other's eyes, just the black shadows that were cast around their eye bones. Draco could, however, make out Harry's—Judas—features, quite easily, even in the dark. Because of this, he felt uneasy and overcome with protective instincts. His left arm lifted up, because he was standing slightly behind Harry. His fingertips gripped the hood of the light-weight cloak, and he lifted it up over Harry's head, silently, and then tugged it, lightly, over the top of Harry's dark locks. "Do you know where we're going?"

Harry peeked around the corner of the church, again, with serious, squinted eyes, "No, but we'll figure it out."

Draco, not at all surprised by Harry's answer, moved out from behind him and took off around the side of the church. He half turned, noticing that Harry had hesitantly just joined him, only a few feet behind. "If I'm half as observant as I've been in the last few weeks, figuring things out won't be a problem."

Harry fell into step beside Draco, fumbling with his sleeves. It was an awful fate to have to be wearing a heavy, black cloak during one of the warmest summers they had had in years. It was hot, uncomfortable, and Harry was ready to get out of his cloak as soon as virtually possible. He had only been half paying attention to Draco, "What are you blabbering on about, Malfoy?"

Draco, knowing Harry was only half aware of the conversation, having been fidgeting, ridiculously, with something on his robe. As they reached the church doors, however, Draco saw that Harry's once-failed attention on him had been appropriately placed by protective, careful eyes. He was searching their surroundings with their eyes as he opened the door with his right hand. And, because he was doing this, Draco did, too, but wasn't really paying attention to looking more deeply into the dark shadows, "I was saying that you're lucky I'm around."

"Am I, then?" Harry asked, his eyes shifting back to Draco with amusement. He pulled the door open, fully.

"You are," Draco assured, easily, as he walked into the empty lobby of the church. Brilliant, really, the contrast between Harry's funeral and the funeral that they were attending. There were hardly any people there, and it had nothing to do with this man who was, unfortunately, killed, having been unpopular. It was because people did not dare show up in droves to a funeral BESIDES Harry Potter's. Had people not showed up to Harry's funeral, it would have been extremely affronting. The current attendance also told Draco that, even since the two weeks prior, it had become even more dangerous to attend public, or even privately public, events.

Draco grabbed at Harry's elbow, because Harry started to move toward their right, curiously..

Harry turned, his left eyebrow curving upward. He said nothing, at first, "Why am I lucky?"

Draco motioned Harry to follow his lead, so as he began walking toward their left, Harry imitated. They were in a hurry to get somewhere, though they didn't know, exactly, where, before they were spotted. They didn't need any extra attention. For the time being, the safest place they had was the church, and the less people that knew, the better. He let Harry pass him, motioning him down a small hallway that he was following signs to get to. And, when Harry passed him, with trusting yet suspicious eyes, Draco finally spoke, "Because I, unlike you, _know_ where we're going."

Harry took Draco at his word and began walking down the small, dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway was a closed door that Harry knew probably wasn't where they were headed. It was the door to the right that caught his attention. It was open and a soft light was blearily sounding through the hallway. He looked over his shoulder at Draco, who was already motioning him into the room.

Draco followed Harry into the room, at his heels. He closed the door and locked it behind him. When he turned around, Harry was standing at the end of a small, center isle that was lined on both sides with ten pews, each. It was a small service room, but it was beautifully crafted. The ceilings, like the main service room, were very tall, and they glistened from the illuminations of the three candles that were lit in the room, which was startling, because the candles weren't very bright to begin with, "I remembered seeing signs about this room last week."

Harry unbuttoned the top button of his cloak, his eyes darting from a huge display of unlit candles in the front of the room. There were candle arrangements everywhere, though none were lit. He had never seen so many candles in one room, not even in the great hall at Hogwarts during holiday meals and celebrations. And, it was such a small, quaint room, too. And, when his eyes fell upon Draco, he tilted his head, "You can lower your hood, you know."

Draco's fingertips took the sides of his cloak hood, but he hesitated, "Someone could open the door."

Harry, very lightly, gave Draco a smug grin, "Draco, I know you locked the door." It was obvious that Draco wasn't very comfortable with revealing himself. Harry wasn't sure he could blame him, but he also wasn't sure about the reason why Draco was so apprehensive about letting his face be shown. But, then, again, Harry hadn't taken his hood off, yet, either. "Did you get in a fight with a bee or something?"

A bee? What! Draco, then, snorted, "No, my complexion is just as flawless as ever, thank-you."

Harry chuckled, his eyes falling down onto the dark floor. It was wood, and that was basically all he could gather in the darkness of the room. Even if someone was watching him, it wasn't like their features could even become closely recognizable in the dark. They were just blobs of dark shadows, at that moment. When Draco didn't further elaborate on his resistance to lower his hood, Harry pried, undoing his last cloak button. "I already did a spell-check when I got here. The church is de-bugged. This room is as safe as possible. If you want—here," he said, quietly, as he lowered his hood. He pulled his wand out of his left pocket and pointed it at the door with his right hand. "_Ephorasolufia."_

A bright blue spark shot out of Harry's wand and sped across the room, until it dissolved into the door.

Draco's eyes shifted to Harry, from under his cloak, still toying with the edges of the hood. "What was _that_?"

"Ephorasolufia," Harry emphasized, as he gently pocketed his wand into his cloak's right pocket, "is a spell."

"No,_ really_? A spell? A fucking _spell_, you bloody bastard!" He paused, in the dark silence of the room. Harry hadn't moved, and because it was dark, Draco couldn't tell what Harry's expression was. Agitated with Harry's explanation, his work on undoing his buttons began extremely harsh and fervent. "Like I didn't know it was a spell!"

Harry frowned, watching as Draco moved toward a candle. He had been struggling with his robe, and it was obvious that his buttons were the culprits. Harry hadn't seen the details of Draco's cloak, but when they had been walking into the church, he had had a glance at the fine button-work. Whereas Harry's cloak only had eight buttons, Draco's seemed to have twenty or so, and they were small, "Well..."

Draco's eyes darkly shot to Harry, "Well, _what_? Are you done treating me like a bloody—"

"Oh, Christ, Draco, _shut up_!" Harry scolded, finally, loudly. Draco had been acting like this since that very morning. It was in the snide little remarks he made. Something was wrong with him. He was going through things, naturally. He hardly had any of the answers that Harry knew Draco wanted and needed to know. But, that didn't give him reason to flip out and be so snarky and sinister—even negative—when Harry opened his mouth for two seconds. Sure, Harry wasn't the best with his expressions, sometimes, but Draco ended up verbally abusing him before he even had the chance to explain himself. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"What is wrong with me!" Draco exclaimed, wildly. He saw Harry's arms raise above his head, in the dark, and his hands and fingers clutched, as if he were trying to pry the life out of the air. Amused, though he didn't really want to be, Draco looked away from him and back down to his cloak, which he had only succeeded in loosening by three small, stiff, _snobby_ buttons. "Could it be the fact that we have to come HERE to talk? Could it be that we have to even talk about what we have to do at ALL? Could it be, Judas, that I miss my life prior to your arrival? Oh, oh, oh—wait, could it be the issue of having to readjust everything I know. Could it be that I now have a brother, a newly-important father who has finally come around, a mother who won't even speak to me because she's so distraught, Lucius who is... imprisoned by God knows who—and, by God, though we are standing in a church, I do mean the man you look up to as a God." He glanced at Harry, with sarcastic, flippant eyes and an indignant smirk. He was referring to Dumbledore, of course. "How about the fact that my cloak won't-fucking-unbutton-and—I'm going to scream—I mean, scream—bone-chilling screams, because my cloak is trying to suffocate me. Just what I need, a possessed cloak."

Harry was laughing all of the way up the center isle. Draco was just standing there, with his hands at his sides. He had thrown them off of his cloak and had pointed toward them, for Harry to understand that his cloak was being evil and it was seemingly impossible to take off. Ignoring everything else that Draco had just drunkenly ranted off about, Harry shrugged as he came to a stop in front of a helpless, still-hooded Draco, "You're a wizard, aren't you?"

"Yes," Draco flatly replied, "but I am not _lazy_ enough to charm my cloak to unbutton. I'm not _that_ self-important."

Harry nodded along, tilting his head and staring into the dark space where he knew Draco's face to be, shadowed in the dark, "Well, if you're too uncoordinated to unbutton your cloak, and you refuse to charm it to unbutton itself, how do you suppose you're going to get it off?"

Draco went to respond.

Harry reached out to Draco's cloak. He met the top of it, where the collars were shielding Draco's neck. The material was very fine and very thick, like Harry's was. Though, because the first few buttons were undone, there was a small leeway that Harry had to work with. His left fingertips slipped down between the two sides of the robe until they landed on an unmoving, stubborn gathering of material. He reached up with his right hand, too, and quickly attempted to unbutton, what-appeared-to-be, the cloak's forth button, "You need to relax, Malfoy. If you're too tense to have the patience to undo your buttons, you really need to take a deep breath."

Draco blinked, staring down at Harry's hand. What! Harry Potter was undoing his cloak buttons, and he was undoing them with ease! Strangely enthralled, Draco's eyes zoomed in on the darkly illuminated fingers, interested. But, he could feel that his blood was rising to his head, and it was heating as well. Realizing this, he quickly looked away from Harry's hand and straight back up to his face, pushing his thoughts away—anyhow, why was Harry so easily undoing Draco's buttons? Draco had tried. They just weren't working for him. He went to say something.

It was at that moment that Harry decided to give a small throw of his head to the right, to rid of the hair in front of his eyes. This action rendered Draco speechless, and he was overcome with the extreme urge to slap himself, moments afterward, when he realized that a small knot had grown in his throat. Judas Cliffdale was pretty—but, no! NO! It was _absolutely not appropriate_.

Draco's mouth closed. He was far too vulnerable, in the dark, but with Harry there, he _felt_ vulnerable, "Fuck."

Harry's eyelashes flickered upward. He squinted, fumbling with another button, "What was that?"

Draco wished he could have pulled his hood over his entire face and disappeared, "Nothing."

Harry's eyes slipped back down to Draco's cloak. He was silent for a couple of seconds, as was Draco. They had _been_ silent, but now he knew it was an actual awkwardness versus a friendly mission of ridding Draco of his heavy cloak, "You know," Harry finally started. His voice failed in sounding professional and at-ease. Instead, it had crackled, it had lowered in volume and hit a higher note. He cleared his throat, his forehead furrowing in frustration. "Ephorasolufia casts a charm over a room so outside forces can't listen in. The only way someone would be able to break the spell is if they were to realize I am me, Harry, and cast the counter-spell while invoking my name. Otherwise, no one could possibly tap into this conversation." He paused, attentively undoing one of the last couple of Draco's buttons, slightly leaned over. "Although nothing is really_ impossible_ in magic, I think Dumbledore said it's impossible to find the loop-hole in this one."

Draco was concentrating on the cross at the front of the room, innocently, pleading with it, "I suppose he told you this great big secret of a loop-hole?"

"No," Harry lightly responded, as the last of Draco's buttons was undone. He stood tall, again. "To be honest with you, I don't think he knows it. It's not a common spell. It has horrible after-shocks. It was never approved by the Ministry Spell Association It causes the caster a couple of hours of excruciating headaches hours afterward." When Draco's head gave a sporadic movement, Harry shrugged, lightly. "It's worth it, though, isn't it?"

"No," Draco immediately replied, as if Harry were insane. "I can't believe you did that."

"Well, if you weren't such an insecure pansy, deathly afraid of someone overhearing, I would not have had to cast it, would I have?" Harry quickly bit at him, though in light, good-nature. His mouth stayed half-open, in a bright smile, as he heard Draco take in a deep breath. He could practically see Draco's mouth opening and his gray-ish, light, light blue eyes making little dagger-stabs through Harry. But, before he could respond, Harry reached out to the opposite hood, with his right hand, closing the space between them. He finally tugged Draco's hood down, distracted that he couldn't see the expressions and fluid generosity of the always-intriguing face "There, and if someone comes to open the door, we'll know about fifteen feet before hand, which, I dare say, Draco Malfoy, it might be enough time for you to put your hood back on—but, if your reflexes are anything like your old Quidditch reflexes..."

Draco grinned. He _grinned_. Like some bloody idiot! And, over an insult, at that! "I wouldn't go there."

"Are there better places I could go, Malfoy?"

Draco's lips pressed together.

Harry coughed, "I... not... this is ridiculous! You and I, Malfoy, should NEVER have sexual banter. I was being serious." And, there he went, with his glinting eyes and maliciously sexy smirk—if there was such a thing. It wasn't hard, at all, to find Draco appealing. But, Harry had been trying to be serious, and Draco had taken his statement with a tiny little bit of seriousness and a whole lot of sugar—oh, and some mildly subtle salt, too.

After the afternoon they had had, Harry was frazzled and confused over the state of their relationship. Their personalities, which had always seemed to have clashed at school, now seemed to compliment each other so well that their relationship was quickly escalating to that of best-comrade-ship, which was very strange, because that, to Harry, didn't even seem fathomable and never had

They got along well. Their humor matched. They fed off of one of another, even when they were bored, until they were wasting time with banter that neither of them had intended. It was easy to fall slightly in love with Draco's personality, but it wasn't acceptable, LEAST of all to Harry—Harry Potter! Regardless of how he had ever viewed Draco, and how Draco had changed in his eyes, he had never been supposed to feel genuinely friendly toward Draco. It was almost sacrilegious.

Draco watched Harry, no longer being able to hide his amusement, "We could ax out the banter."

Harry turned around, his attention on the front of the room, "Yes, we'll ax out the banter."

"Then, you'd just rather the sex?" Draco asked, after him, smugly.

Harry growled, nervously itching at his neck beneath his cloak, "I walked right into that."

Draco followed him. He could feel that his own eyes were glittering with contentment, "You _really_ did."

Harry couldn't push away the smile that began to twitch on his lips. He gave in as he reached the front pew. He turned around to Draco, smiling fully, with teeth and all. He didn't know if Draco could have seen it, but—oh. Draco was standing right behind him. This made Harry jump backward and collide with a podium. When he hit the podium, it wobbled from side to side. He quickly steadied it before turning back to a howling Draco, "DON'T DO THAT!"

"Do what!" Draco looked scandalized.

"_That_," Harry pointed at him, quick to accuse Draco of doing something, though there was nothing.

Draco looked down at himself, awkwardly, and then very pointedly back to Harry, "_What_, Potter?"

"_That_," Harry, again, accused him of, moving his finger around-about the air in Draco's direction.

Draco nodded, once, and folded his arms over his chest, "Oh, yes. You mean _breathe_?"

"Yes, exactly," Harry enthused, as he approached Draco. He laughed, however, not being able to hold back.

Draco started to laugh, too, though trying his hardest to sound scathing and not boyishly innocent, "Sorry, bad habit."

"S'okay, we all have our moments," Harry greeted him with mock seriousness and understanding, standing beside him. However, he took a seat down on the small pew, leaving Draco standing. But, Draco didn't join him, just walked over toward the huge display of candles in the front of the room. He didn't ask what Draco was doing, and a few seconds later, a bright light emerged from the tip of Draco's wand. It was a flame, and he was leaned over the display of candles. Silently watching, content and unhurried in the moment, Harry leaned forward, over his knees.

Draco took his time in lighting all of the candles that called out to him.

And, finally, after minutes had passed by, Harry, who was drowsy with thoughts and candle illumination, quietly spoke, "Why are you lighting candles?"

Draco turned around. Now, from across the ten feet, he could see Harry, and he knew Harry could see him. The candles had lit the room so beautifully. It was a warm night, and their cloaks made them both hot, but neither of them had made the move to remove themselves from their cloaks. To do so was almost a way of making them feel unprotected. If they had had to leave in a hurry, it was best to keep their cloaks on their backs.

Harry sat up, stretching his back with a strong arch. He felt like a lion waking from a long, peaceful nap.

Draco lit another candle, "I don't know. It feels like the right thing to do."

Harry stood at Draco's side, silently, and began to light the non-lit candles with his own wand.

Draco glanced at Harry, openly. But, he smiled to himself and turned his attention back to the candles. He missed Harry's old face. He didn't like Judas Cliffdale compared to Harry Potter. But, Judas was pretty, and, as he stood there, staring down at the candles, his expression was screaming of vulnerability and complexities. He appeared deep in thought. His lower lip stuck out further than his top, his chin was tilted down to his chest, and his eyes appeared unguarded and purely innocent, for the very first time since Harry had arrived earlier that summer. And, not being able to let this slip by, Draco, once more, couldn't help but find Harry, again, "What's wrong?"

Harry blinked, but he didn't look up, "I don't understand how religion works with our world, Malfoy. I've tried to give it thought, but I still can never manage to figure out how some of us practice strict religions when our very blood is what it preaches against."

Draco was surprised. Harry's voice had been very soft, very at ease, "You're going off of Christian theology?"

"Catholic," Harry muttered, under his breath. "My Aunt Petunia—she's very catholic, or _claims_ to be, but damn me if I _ever_ saw her being a model spokeswoman."

Draco nodded his head, once, and knowingly murmured, "You would have some trouble understanding, then," Draco informed him of this, under his breath. He looked at Harry, from the last candle he had the delight of putting light to. Harry was looking at him, now, but with those same open, inviting, very kind eyes. They were not like the eyes of Judas Cliffdale, and they were not like the eyes of Harry Potter. Draco began to wonder if they were what Harry's green eyes had always wanted to express, but had never been physically able to. Or, perhaps, he had never been able to show such welcoming, unharmed eyes to Draco, before, which was not a stretch to acknowledge. "No one has ever taken the time to explain to you the _ironic damnation_ that religion, in wizard society, presents?"

Harry's lips were dry. He murmured a small, "No, I figured it didn't exist at all."

"Because of the damnation factor," Draco guessed. "Witchcraft is forbidden, yes?"

Harry nodded along, but said nothing, watching Draco's glowing face with silent, unfaltering awe.

"Except that it's not forbidden," Draco quietly replied. When he saw Harry's wide-eyed reaction, he couldn't help but smile. Potter really had no idea about anything concerning the deep dark secrets of wizardry religion, and this was dawning on Draco. "I don't clam to know everything about religion and wizardry. I know the basics, because my mother was once a religious witch, after the whole debacle with Cornwell, when she thought she was damned to hell," he jabbed, lightly, at the entire situation, and he heard Harry take a small, un-Potter-like laugh, as if he were embarrassed for Draco having to admit this out-loud, once more, to Harry, of all people.

"The witchcraft described in the bible is evil, Harry, or so the wizard theologians claim. What was not included in the bible was the lost script, where it clearly stated that there were two sides to magic—the good and the bad. The mention of bad was left in the bible, therefore making all witchcraft, essentially, evil. For centuries, this script was claimed, by the Christians, to have been a figment of our imaginations, until it was found and translated, _supposedly_, and revealed as the truth. Christians refused it for the bible, because the script, like many other "non-official" books from the bible were not "proven" to be accurate, as if what is in the bible _is_, somehow, proven to be completely true—and, the skeptic in me says that it's thick of Christians to try and disprove one man's prophecies of God over another man's, as if one man hearing God's voice in his head is more viable than the other."

Harry was in awe of the explanation, but he frowned, "You don't seem very convinced."

Draco glanced at him, "Of the religion or of the script?"

"Well," Harry quietly responded, thinking this over. He paused, but then found Draco's clear eyes, "both."

"The script _does_ exist," Draco assured him, as he pulled his wand back from lighting another candle. "Though the other books of the Bible, and the other scripts, are still accessible and can be found, and are at least talked about by theologians, the script that Christian Witchcraft runs off of was, basically, given to the Minister, at the time of the find. The Minister was told that he could have it, but to never, EVER, EVER let it get into the hands of muggle Christianity. They wanted nothing to do with it, and even now, there are Christians who have heard of the script, but the church, mostly the Catholic church, refuses to acknowledge the script's existence, and no one can prove that it does exist, because no one has it. It's written in enchanted bibles, so a muggle couldn't see the contents even if he or she stared and uttered all sorts of words at it for days on end. Many modern Christianity branches, though, are more open to the possibility, though anyone hardly admits it. I mean, they're not idiots, are they? They did break away from the Catholic church—and, I'm not a religious person, so I don't know whether or not to believe in it."

"Draco Malfoy, three. Catholic church, zero."

"Why would I want to acknowledge a religion, with high regard, when my blood is its lowest regard?"

Harry's eyes flickered over Draco's profile, and he slowly began to smile, "Er—Malfoy, I was teasing."

Draco smiled to himself, too, and sheepishly laughed, his eyes shifting to the left, to Harry, "I know," he muttered, under his breath and quickly looked away, not wanting Harry to call him out over being so snippy. "Cornwell took me to a muggle church when I was five—Episcopalian." He, finally, lowered his wand, after extinguishing the tip with a quickly murmured spell. But, Harry continued lighting candles, making small waves of movement with his hand as he moved along with each candle, lighting the room more brightly with each new flame. "I loved it."

Harry stared down as the tip of his wand lit, yet another, solid, white wick, "Were you raised religiously?"

"No, not at all," Draco quietly admitted. "Lucius was Catholic—yeah, muggle Catholic, and though the Catholic church, in theory, damned him to hell, his faith still existed there. I don't know why or how that is even possible. I tried asking him, once, but he got frustrated with his own answer and stopped trying to explain it. My mother was raised in the Catholic Wizard church. She was never religious, though."

After a few seconds of silence proceeded Draco's answer, Harry turned to him, expectantly, "Don't be a bloody tease, Malfoy. Come on, now—_Cornwell_?"

Draco hesitated, his eyes falling to the ground, "Episcopal Wizard church—though, he wasn't religious."

Harry frowned, confused by Draco's awkward hesitance. It was like he was holding something back, "_Draco_?"

"He took me to church once in while. We were never _religious_, but he was spiritual. He... _is_ spiritual."

Harry paused, hanging on and trying to decipher Draco's strained tone, "But, you're not, right?"

"No," Draco returned, honestly. It felt like a small part of him was freed. "I am."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he let a breath of pressured air leave his mouth and extinguish the flame at the tip of his wand, "_Really_?"

Draco frowned, "I'd like to pretend that I'm not offended, but I'm actually not." Harry's face washed over in confusion, as if to ask what the hell Draco was talking about. He leaned forward a bit, as if the answer should have been obvious, and he was trying to pull it out of Harry, "Any time my relationship with anything metaphysical comes up, the reactions are exactly the same. _Really_?_ Malfoy, you're spiritual?_ I'm supposed to be _religious_—but, spiritual? It's almost as if it's a carnal sin to those I tell, which is _fucking_ absurd."

Harry distractedly circled his finger around the one perfectly still flame he had been studying for the last few seconds, "They only react that way because you're from a pure-blooded, purely Catholic background, Malfoy."

"No, no," Draco corrected. "I'm from an Episcopal, spiritual father versus a non-religious Catholic mother."

Harry suddenly turned to him, "_I_ know that."

Draco felt his face flush over with realization. He stayed silent as Harry went to speak, again.

"But, from where everyone _else_ stands, you'd be the type highly unlikely to be spiritual rather than strictly religious, especially when the papers report that your family has a private chapel in your manor—which you do—in which you are given Catholic services, weekly." When he stopped talking, Draco was knowingly nodding, though he didn't seem pleased to excited to do so. It was very enthralling for Harry to be hearing Draco tell him these things—things that no one had ever taken the time to explain to him. "If you're spiritual, then, what _do_ you believe?"

"I believe in God," Draco responded, quietly, but then elaborated. "The Christian God."

"You just don't believe in strict religious activities?"

"Basically," Draco admitted. He left it at that, or he started to, but when he caught Harry from the corner of his eye, it was obvious that he had an open invitation to keep talking, because Harry wanted, apparently, to listen to what he had to say, so much so that he was staring at him with squinted, patient brown eyes.

Draco cautiously continued, "God is God, to me—a God who I don't feel the need to prove myself to, because I was brought to believe that he loved me for who I was—am—and he was understanding, all-mighty, all-powerful. But, I don't know... sometimes I wonder—and, not that I wonder against him, but the world is a large placed with hundreds of creation theories and an infinite number of questions that can never be answered. I don't think I would offend God with these questions, I think he would welcome my questions to find my path back to him, not that I ever actually left him." He paused, thoughtfully, toying with his chin in his fingertips as he thought over his own explanation of where he stood. "I believe in him, yet I don't know if I believe in the stories _behind_ him."

Harry's eyes followed Draco's every movement.

Draco sheepishly grinned, breaking himself out of the intent staring contest with the cross he had been staring at, "Does that make sense?"

Harry slowly nodded, "I think so." Draco frowned. "_Ultimately_, you believe in Him." He paused. "_Right_?"

"Exactly."

Harry looked away from him, very thoughtful and distant on the matter, "I have an idea."

As Draco sat down on a pew, Harry turned around to him, from lighting, yet, another candle, "What?"

Harry walked toward him, toying with his wand in his fingertips, so as he pronged at the wand between his fingers, and it made a circular motion, his flame twisted and roared in the wind of the movement, "Does Cornwell still attend church?"

Draco, distractedly, pulled his cloak away from his right shoulder for air to sweep beneath it. He was hoping for some cool-aired, well-welcomed, relief, "Oh, no. He stopped going years ago—after your... your, uh, father died, I think. After that, he only took me to take me."

"Oh," Harry returned, watching Draco with squinted, detached eyes. At the mention of his father, especially at that of Draco Malfoy's mercy, he couldn't help but feeling strange, even though there had been no resentment in Draco's voice. Harry didn't much speak about his father with anyone, much less have someone else use the terms "your father" during conversations about church. And, he went for it. "We should go."

Draco looked up, confused, "Go where?"

"To church," Harry bravely blurted out. "We should go to church—the Episcopal one. I want to learn more."

"You're kidding me, right? I'm not trying to recruit you to religion, Potter. I won't have it."

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I just want to go and see what I think. I might like it. I might hate it. It's not like I've ever really had the chance to pursue it, now have I?"

Draco's eyes looked Harry over, as if sizing him up, mentally guessing over his religious heritage, "What are you, anyway?"

Harry smiled and nodded at Draco, once, with his chin, almost factually, "Half Wizard Episcopalian, half Catholic." Draco tilted his head, and Harry agreed with the glint in his surprised, expressive silvery-blue eyes. "Same as you."

It was silent for a long moment.

Draco slowly rose back to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, "Really?" His voice was high.

Harry nodded, once, wondering if his expression was identical to Draco's. He had been feeling wonderment and astonishment for the last few minutes, but now Draco seemed to be experiencing the same sort of thing. The fact that they were of the same make-up was fascinating to Harry, even if it was something so minute. But, it wasn't minute, not anymore.

There were so many little connections that had bonded their history that they had never known, or at least that Harry had never known—just like the fact that his father and Cornwell had been best friends—something Harry had never dreamed possible or even SANE, and, also, something that everyone he had trusted, in his life, had failed to tell him. But, Draco's world was not as easy as most people thought it to be, either. He had his fair share of issues and secrets, and those issues and secrets, as they were revealed, made Harry feel closer to him, "Really."

Draco squinted, "Who was the Episcopalian?"

"Wait," Harry stumbled, at Draco's question. Draco was asking which parent of Harry's had been Episcopalian, and perhaps out of innocent curiosity. It had been his father, James, who was Episcopalian, and after remembering this, and religion in general, a conversation he had once had with Sirius popped into his head. He started to laugh, blinking fast at the possibility he was pondering, "I remember Sirius, once, telling me about my father attending church with one of his cousins—Sirius's cousin, I mean."

Draco nervously rubbed at the corner of his mouth.

They stared at each other, in hesitantly anxious horror.

Before Draco could stop himself, he grasped his head and laughed, "POTTER, GET OF MY FAMILY HISTORY!"

Harry laughed, even harder, out of the random blue, taking a seat on the pew beside a currently-seated Draco. He leaned over his knees and ran his fingertips back through his hair, staring down at the floor with utmost disbelief. How was this happening? With Lucius as Draco's father, it was impossible for any of their revelations to have been possible. Therefore, with Lucius as Draco's father, everything about Draco, Harry had hated. But, with Cornwell as Draco's father—it was a whole different situation! A whole different Quidditch-game! "You're not exactly a bunch of sugar-quills, yourself, are you, Malfoy! At least you've had time to adjust to all of this information. Imagine finding out that your enemy is the son of one of your father's best friends whom you never even _knew_ about."

Draco sighed with strung-out, hesitant happiness—something he didn't often openly acknowledge or express. It was a very strange moment for them both.

Harry finally pulled his head up and turned to look at Draco, silently.

Draco looked back at him, his left eyebrow perfectly arched, "What?"

Harry just continued to eye Draco, but his expression faltered, and he began to brood, "Malfoy, things could have been _so_ different." That was all he could utter about the depth and seriousness of what their lives could have been like if certain truths had been shared by each other and by other people, or even if their lives hadn't taken the turns they had at birth. It was amazing and awe-inspiring, but it was also dreadful and grief-inspiring. Feeling disheveled, Harry looked back down at his hands, beginning to feel the onset of sadness for all of the things about his father than he had never known. "Christ."

"_Yes, Harry_?" Draco's deepest voice echoed, grandly, through the church room.

Harry didn't manage to look up. He laughed so hard that he ended up dropping his face to his knees.

Draco laughed along with him, until his stomach was hurting and he was lounged out on the pew, right next to Harry's equally-relaxed form. His attention was focused on the grand ceiling. It was completely dark, so dark that he could only see the shadows on the banisters above. He knew they were there. He just didn't know how intricate, or even if something intricate enough, the ceiling, above, was. And, from this, his thoughts proceeded to what they were there for, sitting in perfect silence, in a candle-illuminated church.

Just Draco Malfoy and Judas Cliffdale.

But, more technically, and in truth, Draco Black-Malfoy and Harry Potter.

Draco went to say something, but stopped.

Harry turned his head and rested it on his own left shoulder, watching Draco. He had only just closed his mouth, which was good, because Harry had something to say, anyway. He could tell that Draco only wanted to break the silence and had stopped himself short, as if he realized he hadn't anything to break the silence with. Harry, however, had been thinking over Draco's explanation of religion in their society—he had been thinking over his own stance, and had come to realize that he wasn't sure he even had one, "Supposing Hogwarts is still around by the next term, do you think you'll take Philosophy?"

Draco thought this over, "The special courses for next year, what are they? I mean, aside from Philosophy?"

Harry looked up at the ceiling, too, his right hand cupping around his own throat, having broken-in through the cloak's barrier, "If I remember correctly, seventh years can choose from... Religious Studies, Psychology and all of its sub-categories—like the studies of what our role plays on muggle society or—anyway, Philosophy, too, and the Arts—Art, Music, Theater. I think, too, there is Political Philosophy, Theorems, in general, Sociology—"

At the thought of all of the different choices, Draco laughed, "I remember why I never bothered to memorize them," he interrupted Harry, pulling his attention away from a dancing shadow of a candle halfway between the wall and the ceiling. When he looked back to his equal-aged accomplice, he grinned to opposite the confused frown he say. "Philosophy, General Theorems, Art, Music, even _Religious Studies_, and all of those other ones you've just said, and they expect us to pick only one! Seven years of studying at that bloody institution, and they only offer us these subjects in the last year, and we can only pick ONE out of—how many, do you even know?" He asked, sitting up, as Harry counted off on his fingers. "Forget I even—"

"Twelve," Harry interrupted him, before Draco could finish. He closed his palm. "Well, at least twelve that I recall."

"Twelve," Draco repeated, drawling out the number with his voice. Though he was sitting up perfectly straight, again, spirited alive by the turn the conversation had made, Harry remained relaxed and at east, his posture slouched. He had his right leg crossed over his left knee, his arms were folded, loosely, over his chest, and he was staring at Draco as if he shouldn't have been sitting up and looking so fascinated about school subjects. "Don't give me that look, Potter. I don't deserve that look."

Harry sighed with fake amusement, just to rile Draco. He lifted his left eyebrow, "Oh, don't you?"

"No, I don't," Draco jabbed at him, with a laugh. He knew Harry was only kidding. He looked tired. Half-asleep, even. His body language made him seem like he was ready to doze off. But, Draco couldn't blame him, because the atmosphere of the room was very serene and peaceful. And, perhaps, it was the most peaceful Harry Potter had felt in a long while. "One of the reasons I've never liked Dumbledore's method of heading up the school was based on his lack of diversity in the actual subjects. We should have been allowed to choose, earlier. I mean, really, Potter, who needs Care for Magical Creatures—unless of course, someone wanted to work with creatures? Even the Board of Directors, aside from Lucius, were ill-thought to have us not be so exposed to other subjects for seven years. We should have been given slots of time, during the semesters, to try different subjects." He paused. "How do they expect us to know what we want when they won't even give us the opportunity to find out?"

"I know what you're saying," Harry interrupted him, quietly, just so Draco didn't think he wasn't following.

"Well, good," Draco didn't even have a tenth of a second to blink before he had responded, "I'm tired of forcing conversation."

Harry half-smiled to himself. It was almost as if he were mind-reading Draco, and it began to fascinate and mesmerize him. He unlocked his arms from around his chest, watching Draco sitting there, so silently. He was itching to keep talking, and Harry knew it. But, at the same time, he wasn't against hearing Draco talk about the lack of work Dumbledore had given his students. Draco was an achiever. Harry didn't know how big of an achiever, but he had had top marks back at Hogwarts, and he appeared to always have a quest for knowledge about whatever he was doing, "You're not forcing conversation. I was quite enjoying your bashing."

Draco ignored Harry's innocently snide remark, "For the record, I've studied most of those things outside of school—not in great quantities, but I won't lie about being gifted with the grand education of the Malfoy name. I spent many-a-Sundays of my life studying things I didn't care about, and many Saturdays on things I found earth-shatteringly mesmerizing."

Harry tilted his head to Draco, curious. He had never given thought to the complexities of Draco's life outside of Hogwarts. Well, at least not until he had moved into Malfoy Manor and had a look at the fine life that Draco led. He had known Draco was wealthy, sure, and lived in a circle of society Harry could never even have dreamed up. But, Draco's talents were not just schmoozing with the aristocrats. Draco, himself, must have been schooled on the many fine things in life—the arts, philosophies, music. He had probably grown up with lessons, every week, of certain instruments, or going to attend an opera here or a play there, "And, Philosophy? Are you knowledgeable in that?"

"I suppose this talk about Philosophy is going to lead to something constructive?" Harry nodded. "Then, yes."

"Oh," Harry replied, and when it came out of his mouth, it came out as devastatingly disappointed.

Draco's eyebrows lifted, and he looked at Harry from the front of the room, quizzically, "_What_?"

"Well, no," Harry quickly defended his unexpected tone. He, finally, cleared his throat and sat up, straight, with his hands pushed onto the wooden pew on either side of him. He didn't look at Draco, directly. He tried to appear calm and casual, "I was just thinking it's a shame for you, then, if you've learned about all of those things. Why would you care about having to learn so few of them at Hogwarts if you've already learned one of them?" Quick, Harry! Quick! Quick escape, and—oh, God, he was lying. He was lying about his disappointed tone.

Draco went to respond, though not nearly as defensively as Harry had been only seconds before.

Harry cut him off, holding up his left hand while his right hand placed over his stomach. He looked away from Draco, shaking his head at himself, "Oh, bloody—Malfoy... I feel ill, bear with me, here." And, he hesitantly looked back at Draco, whose mouth was in a slight "O", whose eyes were lit up with hysterical amusement, and whose cockiness became all too much for even the church room to suddenly handle. "I feel ill, because I was just lying to you, and if I lie to you about what I was lying about, it makes me realize I actually care about not lying to you, because if I lied, I would be hiding something, and hiding something would make me realize that I am, indeed, hiding something—and—and..."

Draco was nearly beaming, his smirk so hard and genius that even Harry's cheeks were hurting, "_And_?"

Harry dropped his left hand from its immobile place in the air. He hesitated, "And, I don't like lying."

"I think you're lying, right now, to get yourself out of telling me what you were lying about, _no_?"

Harry's eyes contorted. Draco continued his smug grin, and Harry could see something that resembled a dimple touching, not far from, the corner of Draco's mouth. He was waiting, patiently, for Harry's answer. He paused, again, but then sighed. Well, why hide it, anyway? They weren't the same as they used to be. They had a different relationship—completely, "I just assumed you would take Philosophy, is all." Yeah! DAMNIT!... _No!_

Harry sighed, again, and rolled his eyes up as he saw Draco smirk even harder.

"So, you sounded... possibly, perhaps, Potter, you sounded _sad_ that I wasn't going to take Philosophy?" Draco hypothesized, as if asking Harry if he were correct about what he had taken from Harry's explanation. When Harry didn't respond, but rather let his eyes dart from place to place around the room, his mouth furrowing in something that resembled a zipper, Draco stepped in on his lie and crushed it. He knew what Harry's response had been to, when he had sounded disappointed, before. "Could it be, Harry—_Harry Potter_—that you weren't put off at the idea that I wasn't going to take Philosophy, at all, but rather I was... not going to take it... _with you_?"

Before Harry could respond, honestly, an automated reaction fired out of him. He scoffed, "_No_!"

"Liar!" Draco chided, like a child, victoriously, which earned him an elbow in the side. He hissed. "_Potter_!"

"Serves you right for being such a—a—a—whatever you just were. A show-off or some bloody something!"

Draco continued to nurse his right side with his right hand. It hadn't hurt, necessarily, the slam into his side—no, no, it had hurt. And, Harry seemed to notice it, too, because he was turned more toward Draco than he had been, before, and he appeared nervous, as if he were trying to figure out whether or not there was something he could do. He even began to chew on his lip, and his face began to show sorrowful emotion. But, Draco ignored all of these actions and reactions and concentrated on the conversation he wasn't going to let Harry leave and walk out a winner when it wasn't over, "Why would you want to take a Philosophy class with me, anyway?"

Harry's lips stayed pressed together. Oh, he felt horrible. Too horrible. He had hurt Draco Malfoy, whose face had flinched up in momentary pain. But, he seemed to be doing okay. It wasn't like he was... it wasn't like he was bleeding or anything. Angry with himself, and a little relieved that Draco hadn't thrown a punch at him in retaliation, Harry sighed down his defenses and gates and offered out his right hand, as he ignored Draco's question, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to hurt."

Draco growled at the hand approaching his own hand, which was clutched around his side, "That's a foul lie, if I ever heard one," he bit at Harry, and it came out like poison. When Harry's eyes met his, startled and dejectedly, Draco didn't bother to hide his agitation. "If you hadn't meant it to hurt, you wouldn't have done it in the first place, you great bloody sissy!" And, Harry's hand quickly returned to his lap and hid beneath the free hand he had waiting, Amused at this, Draco couldn't help the stuffy laugh. "You owe me for this."

Harry didn't argue with him, his forehead wrinkled in regret, his teeth clenched, "It was just a reflex—"

"Yeah? Draco Malfoy scores one over on you, verbally, and you resort to physical abuse?"

Harry could feel the blooding rush out of his cheeks. Draco's voice was serious. It was deeper. There was no teasing or kidding in it. There was no sexual banter hinting at the back of his tone. He wasn't kidding, or fooling, or even slightly entertained with anything, at that moment. And, Harry had never truly heard Draco speak like this. It was also the first time that Draco had referred to their prior relationship with such seriousness, about Draco Malfoy scoring one over Harry Potter, which he had easily done. Harry had just reacted—and, he had reacted stupidly, at that.

Speechless, Harry still hadn't found the right words to say, in response. He still felt terribly embarrassed. At last, after Draco staring at him, battling with the opposite eye contact, Harry spoke, and he nearly gushed, "I'm so sorry, Malfoy, I really didn't mean it to hurt!" Draco didn't seem so convinced, so Harry did something brave—well, stupidly brave. He stood right up, turned around to Draco and lifted his palms into the air while his fingers motioned Draco toward him. "Come on, free shot."

Draco stared at him for a moment, and then he snorted with strong laughter, "God, you are such a boy." He shook his head from side to side and pulled his hand from his aching body. He pushed himself up, though, in the spirit of good fun, and made fists in the air, in front of his face. In response, Harry blinked. This made Draco laugh even more. "Tell me when."

Harry mentally groaned, "We need to set some ground rules."

Draco peeked out over the top of his fists, his left eyebrow hooking up, "Okay. Set them, then."

Harry immediately went for the boundaries, "Not my face, not my groin. And, not my stomach."

Draco deadpanned, "That only leaves your legs and your arms, Potter."

"Oh, right, and that reminds me—my legs and arms are off limits, too." Harry sheepishly smiled.

Draco frowned, but did not yet drop his fists, "Okay, is that all?"

Harry smiled, blatantly, "Yes."

Draco dropped his hands from the air, momentarily. Harry thought he was going to get off easy. Well, he wasn't. Draco didn't actually want to hit him, per-se. Over the prior year, he had taken plenty of fist shots at Harry, and many of them had been hard blows. His tension to beat Harry up was nowhere near as strong as it had once been. In fact, he no longer wanted to beat Harry into a bloody pulp—okay, and not that he had ever wanted to, because it was always more Harry wanting to beat _him_ into a bloody pulp. He put his hands back in the air as Harry went to move, "Great, turn around."

"Excuse me, what?" Harry asked, coughing and tilting his head. He stepped backward, honestly alarmed.

Draco made a circular motion with one of his fingers, "Turn around. I can still kick your arse—_literally._"

Harry didn't bother trying to come up with an excuse. Draco had tricked him. Stupid! Stupid! Harry just continued to stand there, facing Draco. He placed his hands on his sides and tried to think of a way to escape the situation. He openly scrunched up his face and turned his attention to the ceiling, contemplating where to go. Well, Draco had his number. Harry had never said that Draco couldn't take him from behind. Everything he had been referring to, aside from his legs and his arms, was on the front of his body. From behind, Draco could get the back of his head (though Harry was sure he wouldn't), his back or his butt. Damnit. He gave in, "There have been some amendments to the—"

"No, sorry, Draco Malfoy ruled, and he said you already stated your boundaries," Draco quipped, grinning.

"Talking in the third person, are we, Malfoy? Does that make you feel good? To talk about yourself like you're some big-wig?" It was a weak insult, one of which Draco laughed at. He laughed in a way that made it obvious he felt bad for Harry's comeback. Defeated, Harry drew his spine up and tried to absorb some of the cocky, overly-inflated vibes that Draco had stolen from him over the few minutes past. "I have a proposal, then, will you listen?"

Draco lowered his fists about an inch, but that was all. Intrigued, he nodded, "If what you say makes sense."

Harry ignored him, "I propose that we revoke my stomach and arms in exchange for my back and arse."

"Hmm," Draco dramatically queried, searching Harry's face with thorough resolution and involvement. "That _is_ tempting, and I _would_ like to see your face when I do it..."

"Sadistic fool you are, Malfoy," Harry muttered, under his breath, but when Draco's eyebrows shot upward, challengingly, Harry forced a sweetly innocent smile. Draco glared in response, and Harry laughed. "I suppose it's not sadistic to you, is it? Wanting to see the pain you inflict on me? The-Boy-Who-Lived-Who-Has-Come-To-Destroy-What-Is-Left-of-Draco Malfoy's life?" Harry elevated his accent until it was strong, as if he were imitating Draco's accent—or the accent of every European wizard he had ever met and who expected him to be just as he dramatized... _The Boy Wonder_.

Draco answered him only one way, "Proposal accepted."

Harry sighed, heavily, purposely. He saw Draco shake his head. This was a sign for Harry not to sigh, again, or he was going to regret it. Harry had opened his mouth about Draco getting him back with a free shot, but he hadn't actually expected Draco to take him up on it, for some reason which he couldn't even find when thinking over the whole mistake of a response. He took a step backward, placed his arms in front of him, closed his eyes and drew in a huge deep breath to pace himself. Okay, he had gotten himself into it, and he was going to have to live up to his offer.

Draco dropped his arms, completely, and he tried not to laugh. Oh, come _on_, Potter! Didn't he know better than to close his eyes when he was going to be in a fight? But, no, this was not a fight. Draco half expected Harry to re-open his eyes, see that Draco's fists were down and realize that Draco had only been teasing. He didn't actually want to hit Harry. He had only been playing. He understood that Harry elbowing him was a quick reflex, and he didn't blame Harry. He wasn't a petty twelve year old, anymore. He didn't have to resort to revenge and pay-back. But, when Harry did not open his eyes, Draco realized that he... had free reign to do _anything_.

Harry twitched. He was waiting for massive amounts of pain to ensue. Any second... any... second... any...

"Potter," Draco spat, as coldly as he could, as he took Harry's hand, with a hard fury of a tug.

Harry flinched. God, what was Draco going to do to his poor wrist? It was his wand-wrist, too, which was not good news. Surely, Draco had to realize that they were both going to be needing his wrist over the next few months, in order to carry out their adventure? He took in a deep breath and flinched his eyes together as tightly as possible. Waiting... waiting... any... second... waiting... Finally, he opened his mouth to demand Draco do something, but he opened it all too soon, because Draco was doing something—just... not hitting him, but rather... something... soft... was... on the top of his left hand. It was warm, moist, light, and... Harry's eyes flew open, and he stared at Draco, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed.

Draco looked right at him, and it was not difficult to do so, though his lips were placed on the soft, pale, cool skin of Harry's hand. He was slightly leaned over, as well, and his palm was supporting Harry's. It would have been too easy to have taken any kind of shot on Harry, earlier. Plus, because the last thing he wanted to do was harm Harry, in anyway, the only other option was to do something that wouldn't harm him, at all, but rather stimulate him. Of course, whatever way that his lips stimulated Harry was up for Harry to decide. But, whatever the case, Harry hadn't expected something light—something charming—something... _intimate._

Draco had been, very carefully, very subtly, supporting Harry's palm in his own left palm. He gently dropped it, as he stood his spine straight, again. His left hand disappeared behind his back, and, with his right hand, he reached up to his own face and stroked his thumb across the slight bit of moisture he had along his lower lip. All the while, he stared straight into the unfamiliar, yet increasingly less important, brown eyes of Judas Cliffdale. And, then, he looked down at the floor and casually brushed a piece of his own hair from in front of his eyes. He lowered his hand, licked his bottom lip, out of pure curiosity and innocence, and found Harry, again, who hadn't faltered from wide, innocent eyes and—now dry—parted lips.

"You really thought I would hit you, Potter?"

Harry blinked. He tried—and, he tried almost excruciatingly hard—to shake himself out of whatever trance Draco had just put him into. There had been a slap, a lightening bolt and a click in Harry's subconscious thought process. He didn't know how he had heard or seen any of these things, but they had been there. Draco Malfoy had kissed his hand. It had been an all-too-enjoyable sensation. It had been all too monumental. It had been all too... personal. It had been... an entrancing surprise. He couldn't fathom why he felt so splintched, suddenly, but he certainly did, and he was left staring at Draco's mouth, blankly, because of it, as if searching for answers as to why what had just happened had happened.

Draco watched him, ever curious and fascinated, "Potter?" _Nothing_. Wow. "Potter!" Silence. "_Potter_."

"What?"

Draco shifted, awkwardly, and he scratched his jaw, "All-right, there, Potter?" He took a giant step backward.

Harry resented this motion. He scowled because of it and didn't answer Draco. He simply turned away. What was Malfoy doing taking a giant step backward, anyway? Had he expected Harry to do something? And, what had that something, if it was anything, been? His mouth twisted, and his jaw clenched. It was completely silent behind him. He turned around, suddenly, and he was smiling. He couldn't help it, "You'll take any opportunity to kiss me, Malfoy, won't you?"

Draco repressed his laughter, but he still smiled, his lips closed together, "Well, I _do_ love you, remember?"

"I don't think you're going to let me forget."

"I don't think you _want_ to forget, but... that's a different subject for a different, less-serious gathering."

Harry didn't argue with him, this time. He didn't say anything at all. He let his expression do all of the talking, which seemed to infuriate Draco's spar-ready eyes. He was looking for a comeback from Harry, but Harry knew it wisest to save his comebacks for when Draco was least expectant of them. Because of this, he also knew that Draco was having a good time, there in the boring church, with nothing to do and no one to talk to... no one aside from him. He took this as a compliment, and turned his tone serious, "The only reason I wondered about your interest in Philosophy was because I've always wondered where you've stood on the issue of souls."

Draco sighed with an annoyed smirk at Harry, "You have not, Potter."

"You're right, I haven't," Harry admitted. He gave one, small shrug. "Do you think Voldemort has a soul?"

At this, Draco's laughter took over the entire service room until it was loud, hard and very obvious what his answer to Harry's question was. Harry, in response, was waiting for what was so funny about his question. Draco sighed. Here was Harry Potter, a near seventeen year old who should have been way more intense and ratified in his own experiences with Voldemort to answer his own question, "Do I think You-Know-Who has a soul! Come on, Potter—hahaha, oh my. No! The man is a psychopath! He has no soul!"

Harry watched Draco's reaction until he was sitting on the pew, again, appearing to have been in quite the bit of delight and aching pain from having been laughing so hard, "This shows your awkward humor, Malfoy. I've never seen you laugh quite so hard," he lightly threw at Draco, and it was the truth. From what he could tell, it was the first time Draco was laughing over something that he found truly funny, and what did he find funny? That Harry had to question him on if he believed Voldemort had a soul. He shifted and started for Draco, leaned forward with curious attention. "How are you so sure?"

Draco looked up at Harry, shaking his head from side to side, "Oh, come _on_! You can't honestly—"

"Why not?" Harry cut him off, swinging around and sitting himself right beside Draco.

Draco straightened his back, with his hands on his knees, and he stared at Harry, incredulous for the passing moments of time. Why not? Why not! Why not! Draco shook his head and turned away from facing Harry. He knew Harry wasn't trying to push the notion down, but rather play the Devil's Advocate, "Harry," Draco started, contemplating how to get his point across, "if you were walking down the street, and you had the sudden urge to murder a man, would that make you evil? I mean, really?"

Harry looked Draco's face over, cautiously. He didn't want to answer the wrong way, so he answered his own way, "Yes, because I wouldn't ordinarily want to kill a man who had never done anything to me, but in terms of where you're going with this, no."

Draco was slightly surprised, even though it was the answer he had been looking for, "Exactly, it may have been an evil thought, no doubt, but did you kill the man?" Harry nodded along with the point of what Draco was saying. "It depends on what you believe a soul does to a person. Now, if You-Know-Who were walking down the street, and he pulled out his wand and murdered that same man you had looked at and then turned away from, why would he have a soul? You have a soul, Harry, because it is the good. It is perfection, and that is how you take from good what you do. To kill someone, unabashed in the fact, afterward, how could that identify you to having a soul? No conscience—"

"No," Harry cut him off, immediately, "that's where the distinction comes, a distinction that I can't seem to figure out." He paused, and then turned to Draco with serious eyes. "A conscience is not a soul, now is it?"

Draco's lips fumbled for a second, but he didn't have an answer to Harry's question.

Harry stood up, with his hands on his sides, and started to pace in front of Draco.

Draco watched him, in the dark, move to one side and then the other. Each turn he made, in his minor circle, cast new and conflicting shadows over his face. He was deep in thought, and Draco wondered if he ever _stopped_ thinking. He, then, leaned forward, over his knees, his eyelashes flickering from a closed, thoughtful state, "What are you?"

"What?"

Draco frowned, "You, Potter. What are you? You're a soul, are you not?"

Harry stopped pacing, distracted by the question, but then started, again, huffing, "That I know of."

Harry hated discussing what he was, and Draco didn't like the response he got whenever he attempted to show that he cared about knowing what Harry had been through and what he was feeling—neither of which he could ever come remotely close to feeling. Because Harry reacted this way, again, putting a large mental distance between them, and feeling the slight cold-front that came in direct result of Harry's blow off, Draco stood up, straight, and walked to Harry. He pushed him right off of his pacing track, and when Harry turned around, with a look of bewilderment and defense, Draco shoved him, again.

Harry stayed back the three feet, when he was done stumbling. He paused, "What the hell was that for?"

Draco walked to him, threw his palms out and shoved Harry, again. This time, he did it harder. Much harder.

Harry nearly tripped over a raised part of the front of the service room. He caught himself, twisted around. When he stood straight, again, he hurried around the opposite side of the raised platform, offensively putting the three or four feet of space between he and Draco. He caught his breath as he stared at Draco. What! Had he gone mad? Was he suddenly possessed? He wasn't smirking in the way that Harry had grown accustomed to. He wasn't grinning. He wasn't even sneering! He wasn't even loathing at Harry's existence. He was blank, and dark, and he stepped one foot up onto the platform.

Harry stared at him, trying his damnedest to figure out Draco's positioning, on all levels, physical and mental, without appearing to have been trying to do so.

Draco dropped his gaze from Harry's and tended to his untied shoelace.

Harry awkwardly watched, waiting in the terribly confusing silence, "Are you, er... all-right?"

"No," Draco slung, coldly, without looking up or waiting a second to respond. When he was done tying his lace, he dropped his foot down onto the wooden panels of the floor, again, and focused on Harry. "You're a soul, Harry. I don't have to ask what you are and expect you to answer. I know what you are. You're a soul. Within your soul, you have a conscience." Harry seemed unimpressed by this. "That is what I choose to believe. Voldemort has no conscience. He has a soul, but it is not like the souls you and I have. You should know this better than anyone."

Harry blinked, highly offended and on extreme alert at the amount of ferocious passion Draco was suddenly showing to him through whatever emotions he was currently displaying. He had to defend himself, "It was an innocent question!"

"And, I gave you the answer! He has a soul—just not a human one."

"Okay," Harry insisted, his tone hard. He followed the blonde toward the pew, again. Draco was heading for the isle, which annoyed Harry very much. He hurried around Draco's powerful stride for the door. He jumped in front of the other body and returned the shoves, ten-fold, that Draco had given him only a minute earlier. He might have been a little too worked up, because Draco ended up stumbling back quite a few feet, until he caught himself with his hand on the side of a pew, his elegant form askew. Harry growled, approaching him. "Malfoy, if you give me any more of your shit, tonight, I'm going to hex your face off and sell it on WEBAY for a measly knut."

"If you're still alive," Draco hissed back at him, closing in on Harry with a harsh intensity.

Harry didn't budge, and Draco hadn't expected him to, "I told you, Malfoy, I know about as much as you do."

"About what?"

"About _me_," Harry scolded him, as if it were obvious. It should have been obvious! He wasn't going to say it, again, after that night! It occurred to him, at that very moment, as he mentally fumed, that he had never explained to Draco that what he, Harry, knew about his situation was just about as much as Draco knew. He hadn't had time to find out all of the ins and outs, and Dumbledore hadn't thought it important—or perhaps it was too important—enough to tell Harry before he had left. "About what I am! Who I am! Let it go! When, and _if_—hear that, _if_—I find something out, I'll fucking let you know!"

Draco's eyes flickered over Harry's, momentarily, but he then turned away, feeling his blood pressure cool and his face fall subject to something that he might have considered defeat if he weren't standing in the same room as Harry Potter. He knew he had jumped on Harry's case way too fast and way too hard. There had been many times when it should have been clear to him that Harry knew very little about his own situation, and questioning that situation would only frustrate and anger the bloody hell out of his brilliantly tortured, hectic mind. All Draco seemed to do, when he brought up anything about Harry, was anger him, "What was it about Philosophy, Potter? Answer me, honestly, this time, would you?"

"It was an innocent question," Harry reiterated, but not meanly, trying to pinpoint where Draco's temper had disappeared to. It wasn't that his temper was awful. It wasn't like Harry's. Draco just became intense and hard to breathe around. It was almost like his anger sucked the oxygen out of the room. But, Harry had been trying to tell him to back off of the subject of his soul, over and over, and Draco hadn't accepted it as the end—of course, Harry had no answers for him, and THAT was the problem. THAT was why he got so upset and flippant. He had no answers, and he hated that there was no way he could find those answers, at least not on his own or without Dumbledore, who he wasn't supposed to have any contact with, what-so-ever, outside of random public functions, like the funeral or the breakfast Draco had hosted, weeks earlier, at the manor.

"And, yet, you continue to avoid the question," Draco drawled, at last, with a blank state at Harry.

"Would you rather me make something up, then, Malfoy? Will it shut you up?" Draco said nothing. Harry didn't try to think of a lie. He went with the truth, instead. "We've established that you and I are, to each other, what no one else can ever be. Right?" Draco squinted, but he did not lie. Harry continued, as if Draco agreed with him through silent conversation. "We're also standing here, you and I, trying to figure out what the hell we're supposed to be doing. You and I are pretty much a one-meal deal from here on out, you know? You're what I have, Draco, and you're _it_. If we were the last people on the face of the earth, and I was offered a meal, there wouldn't be a doubt in my mind, or even the slightest bit of hesitance, to share whatever meal I was given—good or bad, with you. So, regarding Philosophy, you're the only person I'd WANT to take that course with. We're of the same make—same minds. We're terribly different, but scarily alike. I've gone from despising your existence, in theory, to taking extreme treasure of the fact that now I don't despise your existence, but would rather die than be alone in this—yeah, and that's why I won't erase your memory where it regards what we have to do, and it's also why I'd hope we'd take some of the same classes next term, because I know I'm going to come out of this summer with one friend—and, it'll be you."

Draco began to hum, but only to himself, thinking over every little syllable Harry had relayed to him.

Harry watched, without hope or expectation, "It's possible that you won't come out of this with the same respect for me that I'll have for you, and I know it will be a large credit of respect, because I already do feel as if you've far outdone yourself, Malfoy. I've invaded your life, and the way you've handled it has been incredible. Therefore, my respect, if it means anything, is fully yours. And, if I never get that back, and in three months, or six months, a year, three years, five years... if we end up the way we started out, Malfoy, I'm still always going to feel about you the way I do—which, really, is sometimes confusing and complicated, and at times makes me want to turn you on mute..." He didn't laugh, and he wasn't even laughing inside of his head. The words were running out of his mouth, fluidly.

Harry had never been good with long monologues. He was usually the one who _listened_ to such ranting. Really. Then, again, when those people spoke, it was of stories, it was not of feelings and emotions—two things which he had come to greatly appreciate. He didn't take the two expressions of himself and underrate them. He took them for what they were, because he knew that expressing them, the best he could, at times when he was feeling open enough to do so, would greatly show his ideal thoughts to someone else—someone he was vulnerable to, who rightfully hadn't abused that very power.

"We've never knowingly, or happily, shared a class, have we? Philosophy, from where we stand, here, just seems like the only acceptable and appropriate subject we could ever share. It's the only one that does justice to... to us, the situation, what we doing, what we're trying to do, and, God, if we're even alive by the end of this, I'd just want to sit there, with a Philosophy book opened in front of me and smirk at all of the words that great men have supposedly spoken in their most brilliant days about, uh, God, life, reality, knowledge, ethics..."

Draco was close to him. Almost too close. It was too dark, somehow, even though it was very bright.

"Asking about Philosophy was my way of setting a goal. I'm trying to see myself still alive by the time the term begins, if it does, and being able to turn to you—and, not Ron, and not Seamus, Dean or Neville—you, Draco, because you and I would have been together all summer. And, I know something is going to happen. A series of these somethings are going to happen, and I'm telling myself that we're still going to be alive after all of these events, and then in Philosophy, I can turn and look at you, whether you've hexed my existence or celebrated it, and laugh. I'd tell you that the Philosophical legends never had to do anything about what they were researching. They thought, and they researched, and they spoke about evil, but, you and I... we knew on a level no one else did."

"Pressure is nothing to you, is it, Harry Potter?"

Harry sighed all sorts of agitation at Draco's blatant dismissal of the answer Draco had been asking him for the whole entire visit. He rested back against the wall beside the door that was keeping them locked away from the world, locked away from prying eyes, prying ears and prying minds. He tossed his hands out, palms facing upward, at Draco, giving up, "_What_?"

Draco stood in front of him, "Do you realize the amount of pressure you've put on me, Potter? I mean, outside of you coming into my life and expecting me to take you in with open arms. Second, only, of course, to believing everything you've said, blindly, after you made my father disappear into thin air and expected me to take that without anger while it destroyed my mother..." He paused, the train of his thought about to change tracks. He switched it back and seriously peered into Harry's dark eyes. "As cocky or arrogant as you think I am, and as cocky and arrogant as I might come off, and have come off, I'm sure, since the moment we nearly met, I'm not that way purposely. I don't set out to be that way, I just am. But, just because I come off a certain way doesn't mean I have all of the confidence in the world to do something, blindly—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything blindly, Draco," Harry quietly spoke over him, which wasn't hard.

Draco hesitated, shifting. He looked down at his right palm. It was tilted upward, between he and Harry. He peered down into the small, empty crater that his cupped palm created, "I know, but I'm telling you, now. You don't seem to have any insecurity that you'll come out of whatever it is that we're going to end up ultimately doing, assuming that we even end up doing that. I've never asked you what, exactly, you're after, but I think that's probably the most unintelligible question to even ask. It's just... there, Potter. But, I'm not you. I don't go escaping death every year. Hell, I wash my hands twenty times a day to keep from catching a cold!"

Harry was staring at him.

Draco's eyes intensely found Harry's, again. He wasn't being overly dramatic. He was just expressing, to Harry, what his concerns were. They were large concerns. If Harry wanted to be consistent with honesty around Draco, Draco was going to have to be brave enough to be honest, too. He had nothing to hold back. He wasn't sure holding anything back would end up resulting in anything good, anyway, "What good am I, Potter, really—'

"Are you nuts!" Harry interrupted him, suddenly, with a loud laugh. He reached out and grasped Draco's upper arms, over the heavy, bulky robe. He gave Draco a shake, as if to get him to knock it off and realize what he was asking. But, Draco only scoffed at him, as if he were trying to be serious and Harry was ruining it. This startled Harry, completely. The whole idea of Draco even questioning what—"Draco, look at me."

Draco leaned in the few inches to Harry's face, nose to nose, and stared at him, pointedly.

Harry didn't push him away or acknowledge the fact that Draco was so close. He didn't mind. It didn't distract him or annoy him. If any distraction were to come from the closeness, it would have absolutely nothing to do with their conversation, at that moment, therefore making every distraction of their lack-of-distance completely pointless and non-existent if they were, indeed, pointed distractions. His hands, still on Draco's uppers arms, grasped, affectionately, "Who am I, Malfoy?"

"This should be good," Draco murmured, but it came out too loudly. Harry heard. "You're Harry Potter."

"No!" Harry exclaimed, loudly, right in Draco's face.

Draco couldn't help his slightly startled, somewhat off-put laugh as he put more space between their faces, as if, for the first time, realizing the predicament that such closeness with Harry Potter could present him if certain planetary alignments were perfect for such a happening, "Okay, then. You're Judas.'

"Er, wrong. Try again."

Draco smirked, "If you're about to tell me you're really You-Know-Who, give me a head start—to be, uh, fair."

Fair! Voldemort! HA! Harry shook his head, "Like he'd allow a head-start. He's getting old—anyway, guess again."

"I don't know, Potter, who _are_ you?" And. Harry gently released his arms. Almost comically, his face lit up, his eyes widened, his mouth became a circle of awe, and his hands were suddenly beaming at the sides of his face. He looked as if he had just been kidnapped by unicorns and bunnies and taken to the land of acid-trips and sunshine. But, the incoherent look faded away, and his hands disappeared.

Only when Draco felt weight on his shoulders did he realize where Harry's hands had gone.

"Exactly, Malfoy," Harry expressed. Draco looked completely out of the loop. "I'm _Potter_."

Draco went to say, "Oh!" with sudden epiphany, but it came out as an expression, instead.

Harry grasped Draco's shoulders, "You're Malfoy, and I'm Potter. Do you know what we spent last year doing?" Draco laughed. His eyes looked up at the ceiling, and he pretended to sniffle, as if what he was recalling was a cute memory of them beating each other's faces in or hexing each other until the other was nearly incapable of existing, somehow. "Fighting, arguing, dueling, and we did that, because I am Potter, and you are Malfoy—the same Malfoy who recently told me that, if we would have been friends, we could have dominated the school. You're the same Malfoy who has given me fifteen thousand speeches about sticking together, and I particularly remember one in which you told me you weren't going to let me do any of this alone, because I am to you what you are to me, and if we're all each other have... yes, do you remember this?"

"Potter, I think I _do_ recall saying that."

Harry tried not to laugh, "Excellent. Do you realize that I have never questioned that we could be brilliant, and you just did?" Draco went to protest against this, but Harry grinned. "You started talking about insecurity, and I was sure someone had possessed you."

"Like I said, I may come off arrogant and cocky, but as long as you're the only one who can hear me admit..."

Harry took note of the situation. Anything they said could never have been overheard or recalled by anyone else, in the entire world, "No, I understand. But, in regard to us—you and me, you shouldn't have insecurity about _us_." Harry paused. "Have I ever let you down?"

"No," Draco muttered, resting next to him on the wall. "Have I ever let you down?"

Harry smiled, looking up at the ceiling of the church. He almost said yes, but then he realized that, in the whole of their evil, sometimes petty, relationship, Draco had never let him down. Sure, they had despised each other, but Harry had never had any expectations on Draco's existence. If anything, the situation that very summer spoke of the way Draco had far outweighed Harry's expectations. He had taken heed to his own family and refused Voldemort. That was brilliant and brave, and... "_Never_."

Draco watched Harry's eyelashes flicker, "You won't tell me the whole truth, Potter. It makes me hesitant."

Harry closed his eyes, and as he did so, a sharp pain began to throb in his temple, "Oh, no," he groaned, bringing both of his hands up to his head. Another loud, thunderous rumbling began in his temple. It was so harmful and physical that it felt as if Harry was witnessing an earthquake, first hand, and the loud rumbling of the earth shifting was right below his feet. Except, the sound was felt in his head. Yes, he felt the sound, and it felt terrible. He knew he was in for a long night. He pushed himself off of the wall and turned to Draco, who seemed torn between impatience, yet again dismissed without answers to questions he had the right to know, and worry over what Harry had just obviously felt. He sighed, motioning Draco off of the wall, too. "We should go back. I'm starting to get a headache."

Draco stepped off from the wall. His hand cupped around the back of Harry's bent elbow, worriedly, as they walked a few feet, until they were standing in front of the door, "Is it that bad? Do you feel like you're going to be sick?" When Harry nodded, Draco frowned, and at Harry's own nod, the pain seemed to increase, and he doubled over with his head clutched between his hands. "Do you have to do anything to reverse the spell?"

Harry uttered something small under his breath, and a blue light shot out from the door and into Harry's outstretched wand. This was something that Draco had never seen before. Perhaps Harry had never seen such magic, either. The spell had actually retreated from the door and re-entered Harry's wand.

Harry tilted the wand up, as if he could see within it. He peered down into it, curiously, "_Huh_."

"Come on, let's get you home, Cliffdale."

Harry was being led out of the door before he really could realize it, "My head hurts like a bitch."

"You know who's a bitch?"

"Who, Malfoy?" Harry asked, hesitantly. Even though the throbbing in his head was getting louder by the second, he was still fully intrigued in what Draco was saying. For some reason, when Draco spoke, Harry didn't find it easy to tune out. It was because, when Draco spoke, he didn't annoy Harry. Harry didn't know when this revelation had introduced itself to his subconscious, but it was, apparently, true. It was a bit of a drag, too, to realize that he no longer scoffed at Draco Malfoy's very existence and drawling voice, but rather enjoyed that existence, and, at times, that drawling, sarcastic, unimpressed tone that he had come to love more quickly than he had ever grown to hate.

"The women who were in your life. You're going to tell me about, tonight, while I take care of you and force you to answer my questions at wand-point."

"Uh-huh," Harry humored him, with a slight stutter. Wait! He hadn't agreed to that!

They looked at each other. One expression was of forced innocence, the other of apprehension.

"If I fall asleep, I'll be fine," Harry dismissed, as expertly as he could manage. He failed. Horribly.

Draco turned to him, as they exited the church to an empty front lawn, "You're sure?"

Harry turned right back to him, silently, and stopped. Was he sure? Draco was asking him... a question. A _nice_ question. It had a ringing of... kindness in it, which wasn't necessarily unusual, but for them, together, it was. Their relationship had mostly been based on fiery comebacks and respectable understandings, but it kept evolving, and that very night, and at that very moment, the realization of what it was evolving forward to boggled and awed Harry's own surprise, his own predictions about he and Draco surviving, and if not together, then solely. And, as he stared at Draco, he asked himself how sure he was that they were going to come out of it, together.

If Draco had been anyone else, Harry's hopes and expectations would have been lower, and he did question if both of them would come out, alive. But, Draco was Draco. No matter how timid to running right toward death that Draco seemed to be, he was also smart, agile, fast, and had a quick-mind. These things, Harry hoped, would equal a better chance of survival for Draco, and a better chance of survival meant a better chance for Harry's outcome, too.

If Draco had been anyone else, Harry was sure he wouldn't have felt so at ease.

Draco stopped, too, and he fought with his emotions, at first, "We _are_ friends, aren't we?"

Harry didn't answer him. Instead, he felt his answer etching into his face.

Draco didn't need an audible answer, anyway. Harry's smile answered what words could not.

They were something more monumental than _just_ friends. There just wasn't a word to describe their relationship, that was all! Amused at the depth he felt for Harry, which he knew was returned, he shrugged his shoulders up and reached to Harry's cloaked wrist with his fingertips. He gripped the material and began to pull Harry along side of him, "'If you're not going to let me take care of you, as friends should do, at least let me apparate you back. You look like you'll have an aneurysm if you even try."

Harry pulled the material of his cloak from Draco's grasp, and he stopped them. Draco began to turn, awkwardly, but Harry stopped him with an agile, quick move. He stood behind Draco, out of no where, wrapped his arms around Draco's shoulders, with an evil grin, though he was hardly anything but not willing to do so, and lifted his feet off of the ground.

And, in result, Draco groaned of exhaustion and misery, defeat and anger, and complete and utter regret of suggesting what he had. Harry didn't have the energy to apparate, and he wasn't going to try, not then. When he apparated, his head usually felt like it was going to explode, anyway. A certain amount of pressure always made his head tense and tight, and with a horrible headache approaching, he figured it best to let Draco do the _honors_.

But, Draco let Harry get comfortable, or as comfortable as he could be, "This is Deja Vu."

Harry muttered a tiny, distracted laugh. The throbbing in his head made him feel dizzy, but not dizzy enough to cloud his thoughts. He smiled to himself, after he laughed. Draco was perfectly comfortable. He wasn't even trying to battle with Harry's weight thrown over his back, "You _offered_."

Draco hissed and growled, under his breath, but he came up with nothing as a response, "Fine, hold on."

"Oh, I plan on holding on _tightly_, dear Malfoy," Harry suggestively added, his voice milky and low. "Take me home, I'm tired and my head hurts—oh, and don't try anything tricky with where we land. I'm not weak enough to shove you out a window."

As they apparated, Draco was muttering something about not being able to make any promises.

About an hour later, Harry was laying in his elaborate canopy bed, staring listlessly at the dark drapery above him. His head was pounding, and he had tried every spell, that he had knowledge of, in attempts to alleviate it. He was horrible with medical wizardry, which was material he wouldn't have been taught, anyway. The most common headache reliever, that most all wizards were taught, had proven to be not at all useful to him.

Over the last hour, Harry's temperature had increased, and he had come down with a fever. He didn't feel horrible outside of the headache and the hotness beneath his skin that was trying to break free, and he was grateful. He knew it was possible to get dizzy from the silent-room spell, and he was glad he hadn't had to deal with that, because he never acted like a man when he was dizzy. He whined and complained and became very irritable with those around him, especially if they... uh, breathed too loudly or moved too much.

The room was peaceful enough. Only a few of the candles were lit, and it created a dark-orange glow over everything, including his own skin. His curtains were whipping in from the light summer breeze, and his toes were playing a game of back-and-forth to the beat of a rhythm in his head. It was the rhythm of the pounding, which proved to be suddenly frustrating. He turned on his left side and beat the pillow below his head with his right hand, with a certain amount of hopelessness and regret, "I never should have cast that damn spell."

Draco had been sitting on Harry's floor for the past hour, halfway across the room, flipping quietly through one of the medical books from the bookshelf that Gregarold Cliffdale had sent Harry. Whereas Harry could not concentrate on anything other than his own breathing and how it annoyed him, Draco had taken on the responsibility of seeing if there was any way they could alleviate Harry's headache. And, if they could not, Harry had informed him that he would have to ride the headache out for the night, which they both figured to be a waste of the beauty of magical healing potions and such.

Harry lifted his head, at Draco's silence, and peeked down over the end of the bed, searching for the top of Draco's bright head. It was still there, and Draco was still flipping through one of the books. Only minutes before, Draco had been itching at his neck. It had infuriated and annoyed Harry, so Harry had thrown a shoe at him. It had hit Draco on the back, and though Harry had apologized profusely, through amused laughter, Draco had still not spoken to him. He was making a point to Harry, but Harry was too unfocused to deal with it. Besides, Draco was still trying to find a cure to help Harry, so Harry figured he couldn't have been _that_ offended.

Even the noises that Draco quietly made, across the room, were extremely loud in Harry's own mind. It was an unfortunate effect of the spell he had cast, earlier. And, adding that onto the constant thudding, expanding and contracting of, apparently, Harry's whole brain, it made him want to rip his head off and scream just to scream, "I said I was sorry."

Draco turned his head to the right and glanced at Harry. It was simple, and then he looked away.

Harry fell back down onto the pillows, groaning with annoyance, "Fine, don't forgive me, you daft, cocky little git, but I won't apologize, again!"

Draco tagged a page in the book between his palms. He closed it, placed it on the floor, and then pushed himself up, with his empty hands, until he was on his feet. Still bent at the waist, he swiped the book up in his right hand and took his time in standing tall, again. He was exhausted, because it had been a long day. On top of that, there was a bruise welting into, what felt like, a bludger hit to his back. He was sore and annoyed, but still dedicated to what he had been looking for. He started for the end of Harry's bed, "I found a couple of things that might help you, but neither are without risk or side-effect, you arrogant, bitchy, lovely git."

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, "What _kind_ of side-effects?"

"Well," Draco began, with an informative deep breath, "one will get rid of your head-ache, but in the margin of the potion, perhaps written by Gregarold, it says in rather harshly capitalized letters that it has been re-titled as the "Acid-Trip" potion, and he made a note to suggest that he would never want anyone to endure what he had under it." Draco tossed the book onto the book of Harry's gigantic bed, between the two draping, separated curtains. He leaned forward and bent over the bed, his hands supporting him, watching Harry's hesitant expression. "Exactly."

"And, the second?" Harry asked, with hope. "Tell me the second one is better."

Draco opened the book to the tagged page, "The second has absolutely nothing to do with curing headaches, but curing headaches is the side-effect of the spell," he explained, and lifted the book up, so the cover was facing Harry. And, Harry, to read better, sat up, completely. He seemed weak, and Draco was very hesitant about testing the water on where Harry's patience was with him, or with anyone, when he threw shoes at Draco for sniffling ONCE.

Harry sighed, reaching his left hand out for the book, "That's a book on musical magic."

"I'm aware," Draco responded, though he tried to do it without sarcasm. When he saw Harry's eyes narrow, he immediately cleared his throat and looked away, so he wouldn't laugh. The book in his grip was swiped away, by Harry, and seconds later, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry throw himself back down into his pillows, lounging about over his perfectly made, dark, shadowed bed. His own eyes shifted back to Harry, seriously. "It's a spell that would make you not be able to speak for the rest of the night. When you speak, it comes out in musical notes, so it'd be like you singing instead of speaking. But, it does cure headaches, and there is a possibility you'd feel ticklish in your kneecaps."

"_Ticklish in my kneecaps_?" Harry asked, lowering the book from his eyes and trying not to laugh at Draco.

Draco pointed at Harry, "It may sound harmless, but people have died from being tickled. They laugh so hard that they can't catch their breath, and, so says in the margins of the spell, there have been deaths from this spell when the ticklish sensation has been overwhelming, but it also states that it is mostly women in their early twenties whose kneecaps act up, but ticklish sensations appear to be more enjoyable in young men."

"Hmm," Harry added, to Draco's introduction to the spell. "An acid trip or possible death..."

"Personally, I'd go with the acid-trip, but you and death have some sort of twisted relationship, and I'm sure you'd much more prefer to face that than, oh, a _colorful _day in a sunflower field on a simulated acid-trip."

Harry snickered, but only to himself, "I'm afraid to ask you whether or not you're speaking from experience."

"You've met my friends, have you not?" Draco asked, as if that meant something, though it didn't mean anything. Truth was, he wasn't into the drug scene. The world of stimulants in magic was unlimited. Spells were created all of the time for the purpose of recreational high, but Draco had never been interested. He much more preferred dealing with his teenage angst and depression through actually dealing with it and not avoiding it. But, he had an image of the opposite.

Harry's looked Draco over, once, but then smiled to himself and returned to reading about the spell they were going to use on him. Well, he could do with some laughter, if it came to it. He surely didn't want to die. He would have fought off Voldemort, but his real death would have been by that of... being tickled? Tickled to Death, Harry Potter! Yeah, some biography title. He sighed to himself, "Good."

"Good?" Draco asked, his voice high. "You're telling me it's good that I've done acid-trip-esque things?"

"No," Harry laughed and peeked, once more, at the blonde, "it's good that you _haven't_."

"I think I just implied that I _have_ done stupid things."

"Implication means nothing. I _know_ you're too smart and stubborn to go off and be what your friends are."

"I think I feel oddly flattered," Draco muttered and began to ponder over the satisfaction he was feeling.

Harry closed the musical book between his palms. He set his attention, with a full heart, onto Draco. Draco was sitting at the end of Harry's bed, with one leg pulled up and resting, and the other's foot still on the floor. He looked comfortable but not content. It wasn't like he was willingly going to relax in Harry's company, for reasons such as having been assaulted with shoes and such, and... well, it was Harry's bed, and outside of all of their innocent bicker about such flirtatious and time-passing issues as their boy-ish teasing about sexuality went back and forth, it was not as open to reality as it had been in theory, and for that very fact, Harry was saddened.

Draco frowned, "What?" He had watched something happen to Harry's eyes. They had softened so much.

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, once more, and focused, intently, on Draco's face. It was obvious that the joking banter of their relationship had not seemed to open up any real doors of friendship, the kind of friendship that was needed for Harry to look at Draco the way he suddenly felt he was. Carefully, he urged, "How are your friends, anyhow? I hadn't heard about them being around."

Draco gave a bitter, sharp laugh, "The last two weeks I've ignored everyone I've nearly ever cared about."

"Why?" Harry blurted, confused.

Draco stood up from the bed. Once he pushed himself off, he shrugged, "I've not felt very sociable, Harry."

Harry followed Draco's lean, fluid body around the end of the bed with his eyes. He didn't respond. Instead, he pushed himself all of the way up, though his head pounded even harder at doing so. He cared more about the tone of Draco's voice and his lack-luster grace than his own throbbing pain. He folded his arms over his chest, carefully watching as Draco began to pace at the foot of the bed, disappearing, periodically, for seconds-on-end when he would be covered by the curtains and two posters at the end of the bed.

Draco stopped, at the center of the foot of the bed, and turned to Harry, helplessly, "Why do you care?"

"Because, I care about you."

Draco blinked, "You care about me?" He asked, but mostly to himself. "When did this happen?"

Harry sighed, "Don't do that, Draco. I care about you, and I know your friends are important to you—"

"Well, apparently, all of my friends think I'm arrogant and egotistical. Can you blame me for taking a break from that?" He asked, genuinely, as he walked toward one of Harry's open windows, with the intention of peering out onto the dark grounds or up into the brightly lit night sky. The moon phase was only about three days from reaching its full potential of brilliance, but even as it wasn't completely whole, that night, it still seemed like there was some outside force of light that lit up the grounds and illuminated the walls of the Malfoy manor in a very grand, spectacular way.

Harry slid to the side of the bed that faced the window, and he sat at the edge, silently, watching.

Draco rubbed at his jaw with his entire right hand, staring distantly out into nothingness, "Nice night."

Harry's eyes floated out to peer into the night sky, as well, but he didn't become entranced, "Kind of fits, doesn't it?" He asked, and Draco turned to look back at him with questioning eyes. "The weather has been horrible during the day, lately, but at night, somehow, it clears up... and it's beautiful out. But, when we wake up tomorrow morning, it'll be just as miserable and dreary as it was this morning. It's like everything that we're supposed to see in the daylight doesn't want to be seen, and everything in the night, that we're not supposed to see, wants to be shown—like some... abrasive whore whose never actually had sex."

Draco stared out the window, "An abrasive virgin whore who also wears black eyeliner that suggests a lifestyle of cocaine-filled nights with the men who pay for company rather than sex, but dare if their wives found out their husbands found someone else to be intimately emotional with while they were dealing with the kids..."

Harry stood up, "Not to mention what happens when they find out that the paid-company was a man."

Draco leaned over the edge of the open window, "The beautiful one with black hair and—"

"Bright blue eyes." Harry finished, joining Draco in leaning over the thick, cold, stone windowsill.

Draco looked at Harry with laughing eyes, "She'd seen him before and prayed at church for his cocaine habits on that next Sunday, but the only thing that he really ever snorted was his own self-achievement, because he fooled everyone around him into believing that he was the lowest scum on the earth, and not the self-made, clean, level-headed, virgin man who counseled and listened to other men tell him their deepest and darkest secrets."

"And, when he was being prayed for that Sunday, he was loading on his eyeliner—"

"For another night out with her husband and another lonely morning with a man not nearly as lonely as he."

"All he wanted was for someone to realize his mask was as large as those masks of men who paid for his company."

"If we were all a bit more like the virgin whore, we'd all be underrated and lonely, wouldn't we be?"

"You would know," Harry returned, under his breath, staring up at the moon.

Draco smiled, pulling his eyes from one of the pine-trees in the distance, "You think I'm him?"

Harry smiled, too, but didn't look back at the presence to his left, "Draco," Harry began, seriously, lowering his eyes from the brilliantly ethereal light above their eyes, above their knowledge. He turned into Draco, a bit more, leaning more on his right side than his left. But, Draco did not look back at him, just turned his own attention back up to the stars in a fast, awed-eye way, with slightly parted lips. It was like he had never seen the stars before, and Harry wondered if Draco always experienced such fascination with the stars. His name was, after all, Draco—perhaps his fascination was written in the stars when he had been born and his parents had looked down upon him and called him Draco. Perhaps.

"I've never known anyone to have worn a larger disguise than you. Ever. Not even Mad-Eye in fourth year."

Draco laughed, innocently, openly, but didn't say anything about the topic, "Look." He pointed.

Harry followed Draco's finger to the sky, and he looked for something of great importance, "What?"

"No," Draco corrected, quietly, of Harry's question. "Just... _look_."

And, two-equally aged wizards gazed upward, silently, at the infinite, eternal sky above them, so far away that they couldn't comprehend its complication. They understood that the beauty was that they respected the night sky for its distance, its complication and its complete and utter truth. It was the only thing that wasn't lying, that couldn't lie. It wasn't in their world. They could not manipulate it to be anything or do anything. It was above them. It was above their earth, above their knowledge, above everything in humanity and above all of the evils that they could ever be effected by.

Eventually, Harry was leaned over, sleepily, with his cheek resting on his fisted palm, staring upward, though his head had not stopped pounding. And, Draco, opposite, had turned around so that his back had been facing the scene outside. He had carefully rested upon his back, and he had been able to freely gaze at the sky, and he had done so, but in his own bedroom windows, many times, before.

At last, Draco lifted his hand and pointed to a certain ball of light, "That's Saturn."

Harry followed Draco's eyes upward until he found a bright, faintly-red stud of light, "It's bright."

"Yeah," Draco agreed, lowering his fingertip, distractedly staring up at the planet. "I'll admit... I loved Divination, but I wish there had been more astronomy involved."

Harry laughed, quietly, his eyes fixing onto Draco, not at all hesitant to do so, "Your name _is_ Draco."

Draco grinned, but sadly, "Cornwell named me—said Draco was his favorite constellation."

"Mine, too."

Draco smiled but said nothing.

Harry watched him, feeling his cheeks beginning to ache and sting. He hadn't realized how long he had been smiling or grinning, even if, at times, it had been faint. But, he couldn't escape the fact that he was enjoying himself, halfway laying on a huge windowsill, staring up at the night-time sky, in all of its startlingly difficult glory, with Draco Malfoy next to him. It wasn't such a bad life to live. It wasn't such a bad place to be. In fact, it was not bad to be Harry Potter, at that moment, at all. He had never looked at the stars with his friends, before, like he was doing with Draco.

Harry looked back up at Saturn, "What's your favorite?"

"Constellation? Draco, second to Scorpious."

"How can anyone look up at _that_ and not think that there is a God—or... or _something_? Something _greater_."

"One of the great Philosophical questions," Draco quietly countered the sudden ponder of Harry's.

Harry continued, "It's like... you look up at that—and... how can you not think something greater is out there? As far as the eye can see, it's the sky. It's stars, stars! Stars larger than Earth! Planets thirty times the size as earth! And, yet, we're living here, able to look up, and... it's almost a slap in the face to hear that people think there isn't a creator, and that this all came from nothing—that we came from nothing, just cells and... evolution and all of that—it's like people don't want to know that there is someone out there, greater than them. It's control and power and immortality—"

"The Dark Lord," Draco quietly interjected, not disagreeing with Harry in the slightest.

"Prime example, and I wasn't even trying to make it so," Harry returned, staring at the face of the moon.

"It depends on what you believe, though," Draco quietly began, after he had made sure Harry was done saying what he was expressing. His own cheek fell down to the cold stone of the windowsill below him, finally finding Harry's face. Harry was looking right back at him. "It depends on if you believe that everything has to come from something or if we know so little about where things come from, in actuality, that there are things we never see that come from nothing—"

"But, Draco, nothing can come out of thin-air. Something has to be created—air, water, fog, _atoms_!"

"That's what you and I believe, but there are others who find flaw in anything that humanity believes."

Harry rested his palm down on the stone and rested his cheek over that, watching Draco, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco returned and hesitantly pulled his eyes from Harry's. They returned back to the gigantic mystery above him. He had a moment, in the pause that took place between them, where he felt like he had been pulled out of his point of view and his body to see what was happening, to see that what he was doing and how he was feeling, was in result of laying there with Harry Potter and just being... Draco. Draco... just Draco. No Draco Malfoy, no Draco Black-Malfoy. He was _just_ Draco.

"Socrates and Plato, they believed in a creator, because they believed in souls. And, if we're born with souls, and we're born knowing everything, but we have to be re-taught it in order for us to pull it out of ourselves, that connects us right back to the higher being. Descarte was a skeptic, and it wasn't that he didn't believe in anything; He just questioned everything in order to find out what was true and what was real, and in result, the only thing he found that he couldn't question was his soul—and, in order for him to realize that he had a soul that was imperfect, at times, he came up with the idea that there had to be a perfect being out there, in the universe, and that's what turned him to the notion of God. But, then there was John Locke, who believed we knew nothing when we were born—blank slates, if you will, and everything that we learn comes through experiences, and David Hume, who went on to add that we know even less by assuming that, indeed, something has to come from something else. Cause and effect, which we believe, now, to be... _our entire existence_... he believed to just be a sequence, so, to him, the idea that we HAVE to come from something else is a moot point, because he insisted that we only know a small fraction of causes in the ultimate scheme of the universe, therefore, in actuality, what we really know is... _not much_."

"Hume is an idiot."

"Spoken like a scholar."

Harry reached over to Draco's profile and held his opened palm about five inches above it.

Draco flicked the center of Harry's palm, "What?"

Harry smiled and dropped his hand over Draco's forehead, lightly, "One of the greatest things about you, Malfoy, is that you're ridiculously intelligent, and you're the least arrogant person about it. I'm surprised you never used your brains against me."

Draco rested his hand over the top of Harry's, closing his eyes, "I never use my intelligence as a weapon."

Harry grinned against the stone, tired, "I admire you, then. That's brave, and I commend you for it."

"Those of us that are truly intelligent don't use it in the face of others for the sake of doing so."

Harry's thumb bravely stroked down the curve of Draco's nose, "You have_ no_ idea."

Draco licked at the corner of his dry mouth, his forehead contorting in thought beneath Harry's hand, "It's strange, isn't it? We all come from somewhere. We all come from two people. We're all made of the same materials, the same humanity. Yet, some of us... turn into monsters, but those monsters once came from somewhere."

This time, it was Harry who added the very quiet, grumbled, "Voldemort."

Beneath Harry's hand, Draco's face seemed to shudder, and his eyes flickered open.

Harry watched, silently. But, Draco said nothing afterward, "We all come from somewhere."

"Yeah," Draco muttered, and then smiled, with a wry laugh to echo it. "If only we could go back and recreate where, exactly, _he _came from—"

"Say it," Harry interrupted, strongly. "Say his name."

Draco groaned. For a moment, it was silent, and then he turned to look at Harry. He blankly blinked.

Harry didn't retrieve his right hand from Draco's face. Rather, he moved his hand from Draco's forehead and slid it down onto the right side of Draco's cheek, opposite of him. His entire hand molded onto the distinctly carved, yet beautifully full, curves of Draco's bone structure. His thumb spread from the rest of his fingers, and it lightly traced over the shape of Draco's top lip until it settled over the full, dry mouth. But, Draco didn't appear put off or annoyed with the action, and Harry didn't want to pull his hand away. He liked touching Draco's face. He didn't know why, or how he had even found the courage or guts to do it, but it had happened, and it felt good.

"Say it."

Draco's lips curved under Harry's thumb, his eyes lit up, like fireflies, and they flew up to the sky.

Harry smiled, too, watching with amazement and curiosity. Draco seemed thrilled, now.

"Voldemort."

Harry's thumb moved back across Draco's lips, as he said it. The movement rumbled through his body as soon as it met his fingertips. The shivers it sent rushing through his body were nearly orgasmic. In result, his cheek lifted from his left hand, and he lifted his thumb from the right corner of Draco's mouth. A rush of adrenaline had seemed to shoot right into Harry's heart, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath in an innocently addictive way. Even one of his legs twitched from the motion, because it sent shocks of startled curiosity and warmth through him.

Draco's eyes sloped down from the sky. He tried not to smirk at Harry, but it was hard, "What?"

Harry quickly rested his cheek back down against his hand, "What? Nothing!"

Draco snorted with laughter, quietly, and he felt his eyebrows lift, "Would you _stop_ it?"

Harry felt his face begin to droop, "Oh." He went to pull his hand from Draco's face.

Both of Draco's hands clasped around Harry's wrist, and he laughed even harder, "No, I don't care about the hand. The hand is appropriate, and I don't know how or why, but it is," he chuckled. He opened Harry's hand back up, through he did struggle to do so, at first. And, once it was open, he lowered it back down to his face. And, somehow, it molded right back over the side of his face in a way that felt enchanted. It was like Harry's hand had some sort of cushion that molded, perfectly, to warm his cheek. "I meant for you not to get all weird."

"Because, the hand is fine?" Harry laughed, too, loudly, confused as all hell.

Draco reached over, with his left hand, and he hit Harry's upper arm, threateningly, "Yes, the hand is fine."

Harry lifted his hand from the cool cheek, and he traced, lightly, over Draco's nose, as he pulled his fingertips back to his own area. But, Draco didn't seem depressed about it. He just smiled, genuinely. It turned into a suggestive smirk, which was immediately put to rest by the look Harry gave to him in return, which was something along the lines of, "Don't start, Malfoy." And, he didn't start, but he began laughing as his eyes darted back up to the moon.

Draco arched his back, stretched his arms up above his head, and craved to touch the moon with his fingertips. And, for a few fleeting seconds, he felt almost as if he were happy enough to do so. There was nothing more, anymore, that he enjoyed more than awkward moments of affectionate tension with Harry Potter. There was nothing he enjoyed, anymore, more than Harry, himself. And, he could hear Harry's snickering beside him. It made Draco happy, and he wouldn't deny it. He had someone beside him who completely had no idea who he was in some ways, but was so knowledgeable about him in others. It was amazing, and he had never felt anything else, in the world, like it.

Draco bent his arms and covered his face with his hands.

Harry's eyes lingered upon Draco's body for a long moment, and he cautiously examined the three or so inches of skin that was bared between the top of Draco's low-rising gray trousers and the bottom of his black, long-sleeved shirt. It was pale skin. It was toned skin. It was... Draco's skin. He mentally groaned and closed his eyes. He went to push himself up, placing his hands beside him, "Are we going to do this spell or what?"

Draco lifted his hands from his eyes and sat up on his elbows.

He watched as Harry backed away from the window. Hmm, "Answer something for me."

Harry hesitantly looked over his shoulder, trying to remain as casually innocent as he could, "What?"

The side of Draco's mouth began to twitch, "Whose body do you like better? Judas's or yours?"

Harry didn't have to think about it, "Mine."

Draco smiled, and when he saw Harry catch it, he immediately tried to flatten it.

Harry immediately spun around, amused, "What kind of question is that, anyway?"

Draco had a beautiful smile, especially when it was illuminated by the moonlight.

Draco shrugged, as he sat up. He stayed seated on the windowsill, "Whose body would Weasley's sister like better?"

Harry rolled his eyes up, immediately, but he didn't really feel annoyed. He thought it was funny that Draco was asking him what he was asking. He had had a brief rumored-romance with Ginny Weasley the year before. It had happened in the summer before sixth year and into the fall term at Hogwarts, but... Ginny hadn't been his cup of tea. She had annoyed the shit out of him, though he had never been able to exactly pinpoint how she had done so. He had never done much with her, except for kiss, but even the promise of more hadn't been able to keep him interested, "Judas's, I'm sure," he laughed.

Draco smiled, too, and nodded, not surprised by this, "And, uh, Brown?"

"Lavender?" Harry asked, with a loud snort of doubtful laughter. "I don't doubt Judas's."

Draco began to ponder what set Judas's body apart from Harry's. There were slight differences. Judas was a bit beefier than Harry had been. Harry hadn't been skinny, but he had been more lean than Judas's form. They were of the same height, because both had always been Draco's height. Their hands were different, as were their arms and such. Judas's neck was thicker, whereas Harry's had been a bit longer and more regal. It had always hinted of bait for the boys and girls of Hogwarts to blatantly stare at during classes, and Draco had seen students do so, as if Harry were a piece of sexually-angst flavored meat, sprinkled lightly with salt and well-done.

"Fair enough," Draco dismissed, curiously. "How about the Ravenclaw girl?"

"Chang," Harry returned, without a blink. "Judas, he's a bit thicker, built like Cedric Diggory."

"Hmm," Draco returned, with interest. "Did the bitter-bug bite you?"

"No," Harry laughed, and glanced at Draco. He couldn't have been more wrong. "No, it's just an automated response, by now. I assume you're going off of the rumors of last year's fling I had with her?" When Draco gave a simple nod of his head, Harry shook his own, picking up the book of Musical Magic from the end of his beautifully elegant bed, intricate with excessive carving and detail. "She was the first girl I ever really liked at Hogwarts. In fifth year we went on a date—she cried. And, she cried more. And, then some more, and it's not that the crying was a horrible trait, really, and I was pretty much over it, but last year, I had another small fling with her, to give it another chance, and she broke down, again, over Cedric."

"She almost cries more than you do."

Harry smiled, but he didn't bother to look up from the pages he was flipping through, "_Almost_."

Draco pulled his heels up onto the windowsill and wrapped his arms around his knees, "Granger?"

Harry gave Draco a slightly comical glare, "Dare I say neither, and answer with Ron, but..."

"_But_?" Draco immediately pressed, quietly, his eyebrows raising in question for Harry to continue.

"But, she's a power whore, and the only body she cared about was her own."

"Really? Granger? I always figured her to be the type to lay down her life for yours."

Harry's eyes flickered with slight amusement, and he couldn't help it, "Yeah, maybe if we were in movie-land," he returned, seriously, without hesitance. He saw Draco squint at him, curiously. But, Harry knew that Draco knew what movies were. He knew what CDs were, and he had admitted to apparating into muggle stores for music, so he couldn't exactly claim to not knowing anything about the muggle way of life. And, it was nice, because most wizards ignored everything to do with muggles, even half-bloods once they were fully circulated into wizard culture. It said a lot about a wizard of Draco's background and upbringing to have taken it upon himself to learn about muggles, even if it was just from a trip to a music store.

Draco lifted his chin from his right kneecap, very enthralled, "..."

Harry hesitated, for a very long moment, and then growled and hissed, "She sold me out."

Draco just blinked, "That's not... it doesn't seem like... why would she do that? I don't get it."

"I never cared to ask her _why _she sold me out to Voldemort. She's the reason I'm DEAD, Malfoy."

Draco felt gutted. He was completely speechless.

Harry closed the book between his palms, "I don't want to know why, because it doesn't matter."

Draco only nodded, his lips pressed together, "You should have let me kill her."

Harry couldn't help the small chortle that came through his own lips.

Draco did the same thing, and then covered his mouth with his right hand.

Harry walked back toward him, "Yeah, I might, one day."

"What a bitch, to show up at your funeral... the _nerve_."

"It's just like her. She thinks she's high and mighty, and always has. Uppity little power-whore."

Harry stood in front of Draco.

Draco watched him, in awe, shaking his head from side to side, "Are you sure she—"

"I know what she did, Malfoy, and I know how she did it. She did it purposely. It was not some misunderstanding."

"It just doesn't make sense."

"I know, Malfoy. There was something about her I always knew was off, anyway, since fifth year."

Draco's left eyebrow hooked up, and he skeptically looked at Harry, "Seriously?"

Harry sat down beside him, "Remember the DA? Dumbledore's Army?"

Draco nodded.

"She whored me out. Gee, _Harry, why don't we start a group? It'll be you teaching us how to defend ourselves against Voldemort. Don't mind the fact that I never asked your permission._ It was little things, and then in sixth year, something about her just changed. The summer before sixth year, I had stayed with Remus Lupin, and I didn't see much of anyone, except Ron now and then, and neither of us really spoke to Hermione. Something happened, that summer, but... it's not so hard to see, is it? People change in war-time. She was just after power, after knowledge. She craved being better than everyone else, though she tried to pretend she never did. She was the weakest one of us, and it proved to be Voldemort's in."

Draco was staring at his knees, in disbelief.

"And, Ron... the night we realized the turn she had taken... he was... horrified. He was the one who realized something was off. Came screaming down to me, at the lake, talking all kinds of nonsense. I don't know how he managed to see if before any of us, but he did. I couldn't imagine—you know how much he loved her? Poor guy, I still feel horrible for him." He paused. "That was the thing about Hermione... she craved... something more. She didn't seem like the type, to everyone, who would turn against me, against Ron, against Dumbledore. But, she never had the connection Ron and I had to each other. She was smart, and... well, that was kind of _it_. It wouldn't have been hard to brainwash her, and I know everyone thought of her as very stubborn and too good for her to switch sides, but... I really just don't know how to describe it. There was always something about her that just didn't settle right. There was a common-sense lacking in her or something. It was probably the events of the summer of fifth year, when the war was in full swing, and then in sixth year, I pretty much ignored her existence in the beginning. You know that. I paid more attention to Ron and you than anyone... just in very different ways, is all."

"If you ever blame yourself for her turning against you, again, I'll slit you a new scar," Draco bit.

Harry turned into Draco, slowly, "I wasn't,"

"You were, Potter, and it makes me sick. I could have told you she was bad from the start."

Harry smirked, "How do you figure?"

"Purebloods are five-times more mentally powerful than mud-bloods, Harry," Draco laughed, as if this were obvious. And, when Harry looked at him as if he were scandalized, Draco frowned. "Why do you think people are so against the tainting of pureblood? Just _because_? No! The repercussions of tainted blood damn the purity of magical function. The less pureblood we have, the less powerful our future generations become. And, eventually, if things keep up like this, and wizards go off and marry muggles like they're doing so often, and more mud-bloods come in, with no magical parentage, at all, we're going to end up with very weak magic, and it's even possible, a hundred years from now, magic could be so weak it could _barely_ exist."

Harry looked down at his book, gripping it between his two hands, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

"She was susceptible, from the get-go, to being enthralled with Voldemort. Even if she started out against him, the more you fought him, the more intrigued she became. It's a classic case, Potter. You can't put a power-hungry, book-worm mud-blood into a best-friend status with a powerful wizard like yourself, because she has no way of competing and feels inferior. She seemed stable because you and Weasley were around, but if you and Ron had gone your separate ways, you would have been able to stay just as strong, independently. But, she would have crumbled. Your very blood is the blood that runs through Voldemort. Everywhere she looked—at you or at Voldemort, which she was doing in the face of the war, like everyone else—she was reminded of what it was that she could or could not have. She was a pawn from the very beginning. Dumbledore knew it, Voldemort knew it, the Death Eaters knew it, and I fucking knew it—the only person who didn't realize it was _you_."

"Dumbledore did not know!"

"Come on," Draco insisted, quietly, searching Harry's eyes. "Dumbledore knows everything, and I don't doubt that he could easily read through a mud-blood book-worm who got her nose into every damn situation you got yourself into. You are Dumbledore's family, and he has always loved the hell out of you. Don't you think he's kept a close eye on every man, woman and _squirrel_ who has stepped within a hundred feet of you? She might have been your friend, but friends don't matter in time of war, nor do enemies. For God's sake, Potter, look at what happened with us. You spent more time with me than you did with anyone else, last year, and I was your damn enemy. We ended up shaking hands on the last day of school, in front of the entire world."

Harry rested his head against the side of the window, miserably, "It _is_ my fault, Draco."

"Of course it is," Draco easily returned, "but it's not your fault that she _turned _the way she did."

"What _is_ my fault, then?"

Draco turned to Harry, fully, with deeply impassioned eyes, "Turning away from a Black for a mud-blood."

And, Harry paled, completely, and his lips slightly parted. Wow, "You just referred to yourself as..."

"I _am_ a Black, Harry," Draco whispered, cautiously, and lowered his eyes. "You were right, things could have been very different if I hadn't been a Malfoy from the get-go. I can't not regret it, but at the same time, you're here right now, Harry, aren't you? For whatever reason we could never have gotten along for the last seven years, you're here, now, and look at what the hell we're doing. You and I, _Draco_ and _Harry_—for the first time ever. The past doesn't matter, anymore. It's a new start. A new chance—and, if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to help you rip out Voldemort's questionably beating heart from his cold, lifeless chest, and I'm going to kiss you and tell you to never, EVER doubt me. You haven't been able to defeat him, because I haven't been with you, plain and simple."

Harry was laughing into his hands, leaned over his knees, "I'll allow the boasting, but not the kiss."

"If we were standing over Voldemort's dead body, I think you would be happy enough to kiss me."

"I kiss people I'm attracted to, Malfoy."

"Oh," Draco replied, disheartened. "What about sex? Do you have to be attracted for sex?"

Harry snorted into his hands. He reached over with his left and gave Draco an affectionate shove, "You really believe that I've been failing because you haven't been helping me the last seven years? And, for the record, I've hardly failed—no, wait... he did kill me." Harry laid his head in his hands, after he said this aloud, and he became instantly depressed. In theory, the world thought Voldemort had won, and Harry was sure that any day, and soon, Voldemort was going to rise. Whatever he was doing in biding his time just made his return more anxiety-ridden for the entire wizard world.

"No," Draco returned, softly, almost... in a _lovingly friendly_ way, "I think you haven't had the right person next to you, is all."

"And, you're the right person..."

Draco frowned, "I am."

Harry smiled, lifting his face from his opened, empty palms, "I don't doubt you're my match, Malfoy."

"Wow," Draco immediately replied, with a strongly cynical laugh. "You don't know what I would have done to hear that two years ago. If my father—Lucius, I mean—ever heard you say that, he'd die."

"Lucius won't be dying anytime soon, but the next time I see him, I'll let him know."

Draco chuckled, rubbing his hand over his chest, not realizing it, "Potter?"

Harry watched Draco's hand, curiously, from his palms and out of the corner of his eye, "Yeah?"

"You swear he's okay." It wasn't a question.

Harry straightened his posture, reached over and grasped Draco's shoulder, "I swear."

"Whose body would I like better?"

Harry smiled, pushing himself up off of the windowsill. He didn't have to question this, in his head. He simply smiled at Draco, "Do you really have to ask me that, Malfoy?" Draco smirked, so Harry's eyes half-closed, purposely, and he gave Draco a cute growl. At this, Draco moaned with tired laughter and pushed himself up, at last, off of the windowsill and back down on the floor. And, before Harry could really breathe, Draco was standing right in front of him with crossed arms and a beautifully innocent, genuine, friendly smile. "Can't you guess what I would say?"

Draco shook his head, "Tell me, Potter. Whose body would I enjoy more?"

Harry shrugged his right shoulder up, shyly, as a nervous defense mechanism, "Well... _mine_."

Draco's lips, closed together in a contented grin, smiled, "I _will_ enjoy your body one day, Potter."

Harry laughed, and when he did so, his lips vibrated, "Suuuuuuuure, Malfoy!"

"Of course, I'll need to enjoy Judas's body first. After all, technically, if his body is more pleasured by men..."

"Okay, you need to back off," Harry insisted and pushed Draco away, laughing.

Draco smiled, intrigued, from five feet away, "Is that how it works, then? Cliffdale's body reacts to men, then?"

Harry's eyes squinted, evilly, and he shot Draco his middle finger before he jumped back onto his bed.

Draco smiled, his eyes lighting up, "You're playing hide-and-go-seek with me, now?"

"Go away!" Harry loudly demanded, slightly agitated. "For the record, yes, but I will not discuss it with—"

"How do you know, then, Potter?" Draco jumped on the question, swinging around one of the Harry's bedposts to peer into the huge space of the bed. Harry was laying in the center, his hands over his face. Oh, it was too lovely of a topic to just easily pass on by! This was a huge development for all parties involved! Even if Harry wasn't gay, Judas's body, apparently, reacted to men and not women, which was obviously something Harry had had to have realized or experienced, already, to be so sure of what he had said. And, this, of course, pulled Draco in like a magnet. He jumped onto the bed, on his knees, laughing hysterically with delighted eyes. "ANSWER ME!"

Harry grabbed a pillow, sat up and put all of his might into swinging it at Draco.

Draco was hit off of the bed, but he was back in seconds, and he was laughing even harder, "_Who was it_?"

"Fuck off, Draco, I'm not answering that."

"Was it my father? I've noticed you get a little pink in the cheeks around him—"

"GO TO BLOODY HELL, MALFOY!"

Draco's eyes were on fire, and Harry was battling with his covers, "Tell me! Who will it harm!"

Harry rolled his eyes, "Why does it even matter?"

"I'd just like to know! Did you watch some naughty images on the Network? Channel seventy-three?"

Draco, once more, was hit with a pillow. But, this time, he didn't allow himself to be knocked off of the bed.

"It was you, Malfoy. The night you were kissing what's-his-face, I got something off of it _physically_, I _think_."

Draco smiled. He stood up from the bed and walked toward the door, silently.

Harry watched him, half amused, until Draco was at the door, with it opened, "Goodnight."

Draco was still smiling, "I'll be in, later, to check on you. If you need me, I'll be in my study."

"You know, you didn't put the spell on me," Harry reminded him, hesitantly.

Draco nodded, simply, itching at his left shoulder with his right hand, "You'll fall asleep soon, I'm sure."

Harry rested his head back onto the pillows, grinning ever-so-lightly. He was surprised that Draco was containing his obvious glee, "Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Goodnight, _pal_."


	12. The Dreariest Dream

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** I know it's been over a month since I updated, but I come bearing good news. I've wrote 86 pages and just never updated, so I've split it up into four parts—and I'll add a new one for the next three days, or every other day! I do have to warn you, though: It's basically eighty-some pages that covers a basis of one day. I'm sorry I didn't get to respond to your reviews, before, and I'm going to do that, now. I kept putting it off until I decided I was going to next update, but that ended up being longer than I had intended! So, I apologize, and I just want to thank you guys so FREAKING much. You have no idea how much I appreciate the feedback. You guys are the best, and thank-you, again, so much! I hope I still can keep you interested in the story, and, if I do, I hope you enjoy the rest!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Twelve

The Dreariest Dream

Draco had not lied when he had suggested that Harry would have fallen into a sleep sooner than later. Only a couple of minutes after Draco had made his exit, Harry had allowed himself to fall prey to a tired ache, thankfully taking in all of the different things he had discovered and discussed that day. These events, he wondered right before he conked out, might have intruded on his dreams, later that night. Nearly all he did was think about Voldemort—how to defeat him, how to outwit him, how to outsmart the brilliant mastermind who had managed to stay alive, in spirit, for longer than a decade before returning back to the flesh. It was nearly a miracle that Harry wasn't having nightmares every night because he was doing so much thinking about one thing.

But, Harry was, at least, grateful that he didn't have to deal with Voldemort in dream state.

Harry felt alive in his dream, that night. It was a dream that felt real, where he felt emotions, and he could feel his footsteps. He could feel things that dreams usually didn't allow. He didn't know how he got to where he was, or what, if any, dream he had had before where he stood, but he was there. He was standing at the end of a dark tunnel. Up further ahead was a gray-area, and he could see the shadows of people milling around. He turned to look behind him, but there was only a wall that greeted him.

Harry started down the hallway. He could see himself. He was out of his body, like he was walking right by his own side. While his body was walking, the viewpoint that Harry could see sped up to get a look at what was going on. It felt as if his body was burning as soon as he was five feet ahead of his body. The perspective stopped and he waited for himself to catch up. When his body did, it looked right back at him with an expression that hissed, "Be patient!"

After all, it was a dream.

Eventually, the walk down the hallway came to a close, and his perspective was back in his body, so he could no longer see himself. He was seeing everything from his old green eyes. His hands clasped over his glasses, and he frantically felt for the ear-pieces to make sure they were really there. They were. He pulled them off of his eyes, in awe, and examined them, turning them from side to side. Funnily enough, his eyes were seeing everything perfectly. There wasn't the slightest bit of blur or fog, but Harry still put them back on his face and returned his attention to where he was.

From the hallway he was in, he could turn left, or he could turn right. He stuck his shoulder against the left side of the hallway, etching up toward the very edge of the corner. To the right, there seemed to be no one. And, the shadows that had once swallowed the hallways were beginning to disappear. He didn't know why or what they were, but they seemed to be leaving for a reason.

Harry tightly closed his eyes before he bravely opened them and stuck the smallest sliver of his face out from beside the corner, looking, hurriedly, for anything that might have been in the hallway. His eyes immediately landed on a group of men. They were dressed in dark wizard robes and were circling a shiny, spotless, black marble roundtable. They were working on something, but there were too many of the men for Harry to understand what it was. And, there he stood, at his corner, his eyes trying to see through the occasional space that popped up between moving bodies.

Harry began to wonder if he should step forward. He knew that dreams could be deceiving—very much so. He knew they could be real, as well. Very real. He knew Voldemort could access him through dreams. But, at first glance, these men didn't look threatening. They were laughing with each other, sharing stories that Harry tried hard to understand, but couldn't, even though they were speaking in English. It was like he had never heard a lick of English in his life, yet he was thinking in it.

It was at this moment that Harry realized that his dream wasn't _just_ a dream. He was there. He was actually thinking about what he should have done. He knew he was asleep, as he stood there, but he also knew he was awake. Immediately, he withdrew himself from examining the men. He looked around, hurriedly, and down into the dark tunnel that he had entered through. It was still empty, which was even more disconcerting. He closed his eyes, again, and willed himself to wake up.

When he opened his eyes, he was still standing in the dim tunnel.

"Fuck," Harry mouthed to himself, defeated. He turned back around to the wall he was standing against. He placed his stomach against the wall and hesitantly peaked out the smallest sliver of his head, again, just enough so that he had a full view of what was going on. His heart was pounding, furiously, against his chest. It was so loud, in his brain, that he was scared to death that one of the men, about fifteen feet away, would hear his beating heart. The last thing he wanted to do was stand there, wand-less, seemingly trapped in a dream, while men hawked around him as a threat. He as obviously a threat, and that was no good for him to even acknowledge.

The ground below his feet suddenly shook, and Harry was thrown from the left side of the wall to the right. His back slammed, silently, to the wall, with his arms out, shoulder-length, to each of his sides. His eyes rolled up, in pain. He felt as if he had been thrown fifty feet and had landed on his back. For a fleeting moment, the wind was knocked out of him. But, he was too alarmed and determined to not be seen to have paid attention to his health. As fast as he could, he threw himself off of the wall and landed, five feet later, back where he had first began. It was possible that someone had seen him—if they could see him, at all.

The room exploded with delighted laughter.

"Ladies, gentlemen, we have a visitor."

The laughter was killed off, at once.

Harry's body doubled over, and he bent at his waist. The pain he suddenly felt pulled and clawed at his entire torso, right from his gut. His back was to the opening of the tunnel as he clutched his palm over his burning scar. He knew that voice. He would know it anywhere, in any language. He stood tall, once more, trying his damnedest to fight the pain. Was _Harry_ their visitor? Were they going to sweep around the corner and kill him? Were they aware he was there? Who else would they have been talking about? He held his breath as he looked over his shoulder. No one was there.

The only sound he heard was the opening of a door.

And, seconds after, a chorus of, "Lucius!" went into the air, strongly, with cheer and admiration.

Harry peeked right back around the corner, his eyes enflamed with disbelief. _Lucius_? It had to be a dream, and Harry knew it. Lucius was with Dumbledore, with the Order of the Phoenix, and there was no way that they would have let him escape. He watched with unblinkingly enthralled eyes, as Lucius Malfoy stepped out from the door on the right side of the hallway, opposite of Harry's wall, only to meet Voldemort, who had stepped out from a door on the left side of the hallway.

The two stood in the center of a group of men and women who Harry was beginning to recognize as death eaters. Lucius said nothing, he just looked around at the group, and then set his cold, dark eyes onto Voldemort. But, something was very different about Lucius. The only difference that Harry could pinpoint was that Lucius's bright, long locks of platinum hair had been... shaved off. He nearly didn't look like himself, but at the same time, he was even more darkly bright than he had ever been. In fact, if Harry wouldn't have heard Lucius introduced by name, it would have taken him a few minutes to realize that it was Lucius, indeed. Seeing him without hair was... awkward.

Out of the inner corner of Harry's right eye, a sharp movement caught his eye.

Alarmed, Harry turned his attention to where he had sensed motion. At first, he blinked. He stared straight ahead at a face peeking out of a corner, like he was doing. They were opposite of each other, separated by at least thirty feet. On first glance, Harry wondered if there was a mirror on the other side of the hallway, being that whoever was there was peeking out just like he was, but he realized, a second later, that it was no mirror image staring, with horror, back at him. It was a pair of bright eyes and a bright lock of hair that suddenly screamed at Harry to stop being an idiot, mentally.

It was _Draco_.

Harry returned the look to Draco, startled.

Draco turned his eyes away and stared at Lucius, however, far too surprised to continue to stare, unflatteringly, at Harry. Harry seemed, by way of expression, to understand more than Draco did. And, Draco was also far-too involved with staring at his father—albeit it, his father without his hair—to keep his attention on Harry. He was panicked, deep down, because he had had no idea where he was. All he knew was that he was feeling fully, and thinking, and the last thing he had remembered was sitting down on a lounge in his study and resting his eyes.

A dream? Was he in a dream? Oh! Oh!

Draco knew exactly where they were, why, and how. He was sure, however, that Harry had no idea where they were. Draco had heard stories from his father about the way the Death Eaters kept in contact. It was a place that outside forces couldn't have known about or interfered with. It was the dream-state, and within the dream-state, Voldemort had set up a place to summon his armies. It was a safe house for the Death Eaters. Those who were traveling, those who were in hiding, and even those who were in Azkaban, could all contact each other in the dream-state. They could all be together, and that was how they had put together many of their plans.

It had also been successful in tricking Veritaserum, because often, during trials involving Death Eaters, they would be asked who they contacted and where—and, because no one ever figured that the dream-state was a location, the Death Eaters had been able to lie, successfully. It had been key in keeping many men and women out of Azkaban. It was a brilliant place—one which was rare, and Draco was sure that there were few people who had ever existed who could have manipulated a place, in dream state, to act in the way Voldemort had made his location act.

In general, manipulating dream-state was nearly impossible.

But, impossible to Voldemort? Apparently not, and the realization of this hit at Draco's stomach.

What were he and Harry going to face? Well, _Harry,_ mostly? They were supposed to defeat a man who was powerful and skillful enough to manipulate a place that wasn't a place, at all. God, what were they doing? What were they going to do? For the first time, Draco felt anxious for Harry. Though he had always known the power of Voldemort to be great and extensive, he had never realized just WHAT the man could do. And, there, standing, with all of his functions and thoughts, in his own dream, he was clobbered over the head by the knowledge that Harry was seventeen and had to bring down a man who no one had ever bee able to bring down.

But, Draco's thoughts of Harry left him, and he just stared at his father, gape-mouthed.

Harry, from across the hallway, couldn't help wonder if Draco appeared so horrified only over the state of Lucius's hair. After he thought this, he tried hard not to laugh. Sure, he thought highly of Draco, and he knew Draco wasn't a one-sided person who only cared about shallow things, as he had years earlier, but the small flashback just seemed to fit right in the moment. But, it phased past him, and he looked at Lucius, too. What was going on? Why was Lucius there? What _had_ happened to his hair? Why did he seem so different, but in a non-physical way? Where were they, anyway? Was it Death-Eater's headquarters or something of the sort? Fucking brilliant, really, being trapped there, in a dark hallway. He had been constantly trying to will himself to wake up, but it hadn't worked.

Harry looked, once more, at Draco. Draco seemed calm and not panicked. Harry tried to emulate this.

Lucius stepped forward, at last, and met Voldemort.

Voldemort stretched out his hands, in a grand gesture, smiling, and Lucius lifted his own.

Voldemort took Lucius's hands, almost affectionately, and gave a nod, "Lucius."

Lucius lowered his head, "_My lord_."

Harry saw Draco's entire head peek out from behind his wall, and he looked furious.

Harry almost went to yell out at him, but he quickly silenced himself with a bite to his own tongue.

It was at that moment, as well, that Lucius lifted his head up, took a deep breath and dropped the hold of Voldemort's hands and vice versa of Voldemort to Lucius, "Draco," his voice boomed. His voice silenced the room—and, he also stilled the body of his son, who Harry had seen Lucius's eyes momentarily fall over. But, Draco didn't move, too startled to hardly even breathe, and Harry wondered if he was even thinking, his light eyes very still and noticeable even from the dark corner that Harry was hiding in. But, Lucius didn't acknowledge Draco. His mouth smoldered into something of a Cheshire-cat smirk. "Draco," he repeated, at ease, "will not be joining our ranks, my lord."

Harry bravely stuck his head out, too, and when he saw Draco looking at him, Harry gave a hurried, tiny wave of his right hand's index finger, for Draco to get back to his corner, which he was at least visible five inches away from, from the tip of his head to the tip of his visible shoe. It seemed to wake Draco up, because he immediately disappeared, again. Not knowing what was going on, and intent on remembering every single thing that Lucius said, Harry tried as hard

as he could to focus, and he made his ears listen harder than he was sure they had ever listened.

Harry had seen Lucius spot Draco and then look right back at Voldemort, as if it had not happened.

"That was not part of my deal with Gregarold, Lucius. His son, and your son."

Lucius did not say anything, at first. And, then he did something very un-Lucius like.

"No."

Voldemort did not seem irritated. Rather, he gave a sigh, as if Lucius was saying something that the two had discussed before, perhaps time and time, again, so much so that it brought a hesitant side of Voldemort out for display, "Lucius, you knew this day was coming."

It was then that Harry noticed the way Voldemort was eyeing Lucius's head, with swollen-eyed curiosity.

Draco seemed to notice it, too, because they randomly looked at each other, for the first time.

Draco was fascinated by how distracted Voldemort seemed to be over his father's lack of platinum hair.

Lucius cleared his throat, "My lord," Lucius smiled, and Voldemort hissed, "I do not advise you to try your hand with Draco while I'm gone," he spoke, very quietly, but it was loud enough for Harry to hear, which meant Draco had heard it, too.

Lucius picked up a glass full of something bubbly from a woman who had appeared with a tray of beverages. Everyone else took their own drink off of the tray, as she walked around the group, milling through the bodies. But, it seemed that no one truly wanted to drink, because no one was. They were looking between Lucius and Voldemort with darkened, emotionless eyes, far too curios to indulge in anything human.

Voldemort's head seemed to tick, "Lucius, my lovely Lucius, where are you? You've not visited." He sounded sly. _Snake-like_. The _epitome_ of _Slytherin_.

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. Where was Lucius? He was right there! He hadn't visited? What? Hmm.

"Oh, that," Lucius drawled. He took a sip of his drink and swallowed, staring right into Voldemort's eyes. He cleared his throat and held his goblet out into the air, to his left. It disappeared from his hand, with a pop, and then he dropped his hand, albeit with a gentle grace. "Well, my lord, I'm surprised that wasn't the first thing you asked."

Voldemort seemed to find Lucius endearing, because he laughed, "I figured you would have told me before I asked, Lucius," he jabbed, slightly leaning forward, with his right hand extended and his fingers positioned in stiff, yet meaningful, shows of just how he had perfected his many arts. There was something about Voldemort's hands that intrigued Harry, for the first time ever. They were their own tool. They had power of their own. Skill—skill that Voldemort seemed to know they so strongly possessed.

Everyone in the group laughed, including a very un-amused Lucius.

Harry shook his head, very slowly, his face furrowed in dislike.

The way the Death Eaters fawned over Voldemort's every word made Harry's blood boil.

The only person who did not laugh, at all, was Voldemort, and his eyes were locked onto Lucius. And, when he saw Lucius's nearly-nasty reaction, he waved his right arm in the air, sharply, and it silenced the group, again. He stepped forward, this time with truly suspicious eyes. He began to circle Lucius, taking his time, as graceful and ethereal-looking as ever—and, more human than Harry had ever seen him. "What happened to your hair, Lucius?"

Harry's nose snarled up in disgust, as Voldemort placed his hands on Lucius's mostly-bare head, with clear caution.

Draco felt his own face fall. How could his father let that man—_thing_—_touch_ him? How?

"My hair is recognizable, my lord. I was too easily spotted."

"But, you're lying to me, Lucius," Voldemort announced, slowly lowering his hands. "_Lucius_."

Lucius stared straight forward, up onto a wall, "My lord, would I lie to you?"

"Regarding your son, Lucius, it would not be the first time, "

Draco's left eyebrow hooked up, and he felt his surprise devour his body. He missed his father. He hated the way that things had been left between them. He did love Lucius. He loved every memory and every pore on the older face. Lucius was his father, and he had taught Draco many things. He had given Draco great joys, great laughter, and great memories. But, things had changed, in years past, and Voldemort had, at last, seemed to wear down on his father, and his father had welcomed it.

But, standing there and watching his father interact with the Dark Lord, Draco... felt appalled.

Draco had never supported Voldemort, but he had also never been in a room with him. And, the room was cold. It seemed perfectly warm in temperature, but there was an air that surrounded Voldemort, and it was not, at all, easy or welcoming. It was uneasy and very foreboding. How could anyone ever have been so charmed by Voldemort to have taken up with him? Sure, he was eloquent. Sure, he was charming. Sure, he was powerful. Sure, he screamed of the answers no one seemed to have. Sure, he appeared to have the skill rare-others had—but, he was Voldemort! He was intriguing to Draco, but in a way that one would study a strange creature, not jump, full-fledge into being in cahoots with.

Something within the very core of Draco's body began to venomously unravel with fury—raw, hard, horrid fury.

"We're not speaking about my son, my lord."

Voldemort was standing directly behind Lucius, glaring into the back of his head.

Harry and Draco could both see Lucius's and Voldemort's expressions, now.

"I've not been able to track you, Lucius. I've summoned your dreams, you've not come."

Harry swallowed, accepting his suspicion as truth with a quick squeeze of closed eyes. They were in _dream-state_.

Lucius closed his eyes, holding his hands behind his back. He had hardly budged. And, when he spoke, he spoke with soft confidence. His voice didn't falter. It didn't waver. It didn't quiver, "I've simply not had the chance, my lord."

Draco tilted his head. His eyes were squinted. The way his father spoke to the Dark Lord... and the way the man returned his words... it was not normal in a Lord to servant sort of way. Every person, including his father, that Draco had ever spoken to, about Voldemort, always made it clear that Voldemort was not easily questioned, especially in front of his Death Eaters. He was a friend to his followers, yes. But, his followers were not friends to him. They were simply his family—family he nearly controlled. But, the way he spoke to Lucius, and the way he allowed Lucius to speak to him, made Draco wonder just how much respect had been shared between his father and the man standing behind him.

What was worse than Voldemort being angry with his father was Voldemort _respecting_ his father so severely.

God-damnit! And, why wouldn't he? Lucius had been loyal.

"You've been on the run, Lucius, have you not?" He hurried around Lucius, until he was standing straight in front of him, again. And, he grasped the front of Lucius's robes in his long, thin, bony fingers, though they seemed strong, because Lucius's body lurched. He did not fight the grip, but his eyes did lower from the ceiling and anchor right down into where Voldemort's seemed to be. "Why have you not come to me, Lucius? Why have you not come to stay HERE and let me help you out of this?" And, he shoved Lucius away from him, clearly distressed. "You have NEVER not come to me—when did you stop coming to ME, Lucius? What is it that I've done? Have I not treated you with enough riches, enough respect, enough _love_? You turn away from me as if I am nothing, and I ask where you have been, and you lie to me!"

Harry's jaw dropped.

Voldemort turned away from Lucius, and he seemed maddened with Lucius in all ways possible.

"You should not have thought against my strict hesitance on Draco's involvement, _my lord_. Perhaps I would have come to you, then."

Draco's heart wrenched. Oh, God. He was a horrible son, if what Lucius spoke was the truth.

There he had been, knowing his father as Voldemort's _puppet_—but, he was much more than that.

His father had clearly taken Draco's hesitance to heart, and he had forbidden Voldemort to bait Draco.

"And, you mock me, so, Lucius Malfoy!" Voldemort declared, as he sharply turned back to the group.

"Mock you, I do not," Lucius retorted through clenched teeth. And, for the first time, his face began to contort. "I forbid you to involve Draco, like I did then, and I'll not stay here while you're either defying or obeying my wish." But, in truth, he was not capable of staying anywhere other than a secret room in a house he had never been able to place to a location, a street, or even a country.

"Draco has been involved since he was a child, Lucius! He's destined to be great. There is no one better than I to bestow upon him the knowledge of what he could do."

Lucius stepped forward, very quickly. Powerfully, until he was standing directly in front of an immobile, contemplative Voldemort. Whereas the group looked down at the floor, as if shaking their heads over what was going to happen next, Voldemort did not move. He did not even blink. And, Lucius stared straight into the warm eyes opposite of him. They were never cold to Lucius. They were the eyes of a once-handsome man, and once of a teenager, and once of a child, and once of an infant—but, they were never those eyes of a true father, no matter how many Death Eaters Voldemort had been a father-figure to, in many ways.

Draco leaned his eyes in further, unable to deal with his guilt and his heart-break.

"Draco _is_ destined to be great, my lord, but in a way that we are not. He does not WANT this, therefore it is not his destiny. It is his curse, and he despises it, and he despises you, and he despises me, and I won't have him despise his father. You'll leave him alone, Tom, and don't doubt that I know how and who can pull you down, and don't doubt that I'm not in hiding by choice, or that I'm in hiding at all and not being taken hostage by those who do not wish for you to interfere with Draco at all."

TOM! Tom? Lucius was calling Lord Voldemort by his NAME?

In result, Voldemort turned from Lucius, while the group of Death Eaters all began to shudder with anticipating sorrow.

Harry felt ill. What was going _on_? His eyes kept flickering back to Draco. Draco kept glancing back.

Carefully, it seemed, Voldemort spoke and breathed, "Are you threatening me, Lucius?"

Harry was awed that Voldemort had so-easily side-stepped being called _Tom_ in front of the Death Eaters.

"No," Lucius returned, at once, "I'm telling you, and all of those you control, to leave Draco alone."

"Draco will never be left free of us, Lucius. His blood has not made him so easy to dismiss, nor his looks."

"HUSH," Lucius shouted, losing his obvious cool, as everyone laughed at the bit about Draco's looks.

Voldemort's chin rose into the air, at Lucius's demand.

Harry noticed that Voldemort had a flash of pride in his eyes.

But, Lucius seemed to ignore everything about Voldemort's expression, and he stepped further away from the group of silent, offended Death Eaters and closer to Voldemort, without a flaw or murmur in his step. He was nearly demanding of Voldemort, "You _will _leave Draco alone, and if you tell me otherwise, I'll slash my throat, here and now, and if you ignore my plea to you, I will not be the one who makes you regret it, my lord."

Voldemort's face washed over with despair, as if he knew Lucius's threat to slit his throat was very real.

"You _will_ regret it," Lucius continued, with a very serious, very telling voice. "There are forces who will not stand to see Draco within fifteen miles of you, in reality, in dreams, or even in theory. It won't be me who comes for you, my lord, and I wouldn't be a fraction of the threat as who will. You've had the best, my lord. You can't control the world—and, you can't control those who wish to defy you."

Harry's eyes squinted, and he felt a small knock at his chest. What was Lucius talking about?

Draco's lips screwed up, having been trying to decipher what his father was speaking about. He had failed at trying to figure out what it was, or who it was, that his father had meant. But, it seemed that Voldemort didn't shoot down Lucius's information or the reasoning behind it. But, who would be this powerful force that was concerned with Draco being near Voldemort? Dumbledore, surely? Why couldn't his father just have said that, then? Were there more people? A list of the most powerful contenders started to flash over Draco's mind, as he stood there.

Draco had been wondering what he had had to do with any of what was going on, but came up short of answers.

It was very quiet.

Harry was half-expecting Voldemort to laugh at Lucius's words, as if he did not see the problem, but no such laugh came out of him. Instead, his chin lowered and his eyes fixed, intensely, onto the brightly glinting eyes of Lucius Malfoy. They were eyes that were alit by the massive amounts of candles that were flickering from the walls of the hallway. Lucius kept the eye-contact, with his hands resting simply at his sides. His face was intense, and with his lack of hair, his incredible bone structure reigned more supreme than it ever had. Gone was his frilly hair, that softened his image in the pretty way that it had—he was just pure nerve, pure sneer, and pure cheekbones.

Harry couldn't help but still see a resemblance between Draco and Lucius, though there was no blood shared.

"Lucius, where are you?" Voldemort stepped closer to Lucius, as if he could figure it out by closing the distance.

For some reason, Harry could hear this, though Voldemort had whispered it only to Lucius.

Lucius turned his back and started for the door, "A place you can not interfere, my lord."

Draco's breath got caught at the top of his throat. Seeing Lucius turn his _back_ to Voldemort was incredible.

Voldemort followed him, however, trailing by a foot, "I don't like that answer, Lucius."

Lucius opened the door. And, before he walked into it, he turned to Voldemort, "Believe me, my lord."

"Forces, Lucius," Voldemort returned, to make it clear to Lucius that he understood. He was being warned.

Lucius bowed his head, once. But, once he was finished with the respectful gesture, he looked up, as if he were no longer under any sort of obligation to be respectful. It was Lucius, this time, who made his demand, yet again, "Don't touch Draco, my lord. I will not be happy."

"You've made that clear, Lucius."

Draco's teeth clenched. WHY DID VOLDEMORT want Draco so badly? Draco had heard _nothing_ of this.

"He will be more unhappy than I, my lord."

Draco's heart fell. It fell very, very far until he felt a hole open, nearly, at the pit of his stomach.

_Who_ would be unhappy? Who was it that had anything to do with Draco? WHO!

Voldemort raised his hands into the air, at once. It was a grand gesture, and his long fingers elegantly stuck out from the falling robes on his arms, "Lucius, you and I shall talk in private before you leave. The rest of you, leave my sight, and I do mean that in the most lovingly way possible." He carelessly flickered his fingertips out, on either side of him, and the room began to clear. He didn't seem to move a millimeter while the room faded from group evil to individual loyalty.

The men and women disappeared into the door that Voldemort had walked out through. And, when they were gone, Lucius re-entered the nearly empty hallway with a calm, careful, pleased step. And, when it was completely emptied, Voldemort closed the open door behind him and stared Lucius down. "Who has you, Lucius?"

"I will not tell you, my lord, for my own protection."

Voldemort let out the first humanly aggravated sound that Harry had ever heard from him—a sound he hadn't even deemed possible, which made something physically happen in his body. How dare Voldemort try to be human—he wasn't human, he had nothing human about him, besides a body—which wasn't even _completely_ human, "I would not harm you, Lucius! Do not insult me as such!" He crossed his arms over his chest, as well, imitating Lucius's action. He continued to wait, patiently, on Lucius. "I never have wanted Draco to hurt him, Lucius. My interest in him would do exactly the opposite. I took you in the same way, Lucius, and have I harmed you?"

"Directly, my lord, no. But, in other ways, you have."

"Have I?" Voldemort asked and stepped forward, as if searching for more from Lucius, truly seeming clueless.

Lucius cocked his right eyebrow, "My lord, my son hates me because of you. My wife, as well."

"That's only because you've allowed your emotions to be so vital in your life. I taught you otherwise—"

"My lord, you have never been a father to a son, and if you had been, it's rare you would have had a son like Draco."

Voldemort hummed, deeply, from his throat, nodding, "You love him very much, Lucius."

Draco pressed his forehead against the cold, stone wall, and he closed his eyes, hidden, once again.

"My lord. For your good, for my good, and for the wellness of Draco, I plead with you not to go against this."

"Lucius!" Voldemort simply exclaimed and turned away, rubbing his hands over his face, clearly distressed.

Harry could not explain the awe that he felt in his body. The way Voldemort spoke to Lucius, in the group, had made Harry impressed. But, this? This was too much. Lucius Malfoy must have been to Voldemort what no one else to Voldemort had been. A son-figure? A close-friend? Both? He was human around Lucius. For Merlin's sake, he was standing there, with his arms crossed, and with expectant eyes. He was asking questions of Lucius and not demanding answers of the man opposite of him. He was looking for conversation, and when it had been suggested that Lucius wanted to keep silent for his own protection, Harry swore that he had seen Voldemort's face quickly flicker with offense and hurt.

"My lord, when I was declared Draco's father, I took on the responsibility of keeping him safe and happy."

"Cornwell should have thought about that, Lucius. He knew who you were to me, and he still let it happen."

Draco's knees nearly gave way, and his eyes shot open like bullets.

"You do not understand why Cornwell did what he did, my lord. It's in his head, not mine."

"I never could understand Cornwell, and he used it to his advantage."

Harry's eyes could not even have budged from Draco's deadly-white, tight face if he had wanted them to.

Draco looked like he had been stabbed, and he disappeared from his corner.

Harry turned away from his corner, too, and covered his hands over his face. _Unbelievable_.

Lucius stuttered for a long moment. No longer were Harry or Draco visible to him. He had not been able to look at Draco, not once. For Draco's safety, Lucius had not wanted anyone to see his own eyes lingering in the corners of the long hallway. But, aside from that, even if Lucius had been alone with his son, there was no way he would have been able to look Draco straight in the eyes. Things had been left so horribly between them—so violently with harsh and regrettable words of impassioned anger and shock.

But, now... now, Voldemort had lifted Cornwell into the conversation, which was something that Lucius had been trying to avoid rising into the air, and as soon as Cornwell's name had been said by Voldemort, Lucius knew that, from that moment on, a part of Draco's life would never, ever be the same. But, at the same time, Lucius had an obligation to Draco—to Cornwell, even, somehow—to let Draco know as much as possible, and that, just because Cornwell was brought up, by Voldemort, did not mean that Cornwell had anything, at all, indeed, to do with Voldemort, "I've heard you sent a group to try and rid of him?"

Voldemort sighed an amused laugh, "They thought it might work. I humored them, Lucius. I didn't have the heart to tell them they would be unsuccessful."

Harry frowned.

"Did you not think about all of the deaths that would have sufficed if Cornwell had been aware?"

"He was asleep, Lucius, and completely unsuspecting. He had no idea." He paused. "I can only suggest, now, that it was a treat for him—a little reminder of where he came from and what he never finished."

"And, where is he now, my lord?"

"I assumed he'd run—possibly to Gregarold."

Harry fumed. Gregarold! Cornwell! Dumbledore! _What in the bloody hell was going on and who was behind it_? He clenched his top and bottom teeth together as hard as he could. It produced an immaculately insane amount of pressure in his temples, and when he released it, his jaw clenched to one side, and he just balled his fists with frustration.

Lucius's laugh echoed the hallway, "You think he'd run to _Gregarold_ after knowing the deal you cut with him over Draco's safety? And, having heard that our ranks killed Maureen and Alexander, you think he would go to Gregarold, of all people, and put Draco at blatant risk?"

"Where, then, Lucius? All of his old friends have been stripped, as he was."

"He was never stripped, my lord! Don't make me _laugh_—ah ha. Ha, ha, ha." Lucius's laugh was cold but brilliantly clever.

Draco had never cried so hard, or so silently, or so painfully, in his entire life. He was in anguish, his whole entire fist nearly balled up into his mouth with his teeth crushed down into the skin. But, he couldn't even feel the pain, because he was so emotionally thrown-off and displeased that it didn't matter. He didn't know what to do with himself. It was no longer a dream. It was a _nightmare_. It was the most horrible nightmare he had ever had. First Voldemort, then his father, then Cornwell. CORNWELL being mentioned by Voldemort like some bloody arch-nemesis! The nerve! The... the... but... it was Cornwell. His innocent, bright-eyed, non-magical, loving... father... who... _no_! BLOODY... _damnit._

_NO!_

Draco swallowed down his agony as best he could.

"No, Lucius, I saw the records."

"You saw nothing, my lord. He was never stripped. He stopped using magic, altogether."

"Lucius—"

"Who do you think went to Draco as soon as I was gone, my lord? And, how do you suppose he knew I was gone?"

It was very silent.

The sound of something slamming into a wall and shattering was the only response of Voldemort's.

Harry peeked out from his corner, again. He was looking for Draco. He cared about what was being said, and the information that was being leaked, but he cared more about what the hell Draco was doing. As important as what they were learning was, which he knew was probably for a good reason, Draco's sanity was a big plus for whatever they were going to do. Somehow, Harry knew he couldn't do it, alone, and he knew it for the first time, ever. But, there was no Draco in sight. And, at Harry's gut, he felt a pull of adrenaline. He didn't even know how Draco was keeping silent. The look on Draco's face, when Cornwell had been mentioned... just... Harry... Harry couldn't even fathom making himself look like that, or what it would take to make that expression appear on his own face. It felt too intense for Harry to even look at, to observe, and he felt half-relieved that he didn't have to see the expression on Draco's face.

Harry looked away from Draco's empty corner.

Lucius Malfoy was staring directly at him, within seconds, while Voldemort fumed, silently, hunched over.

Harry snarled.

Lucius looked in Draco's empty direction, and then back to Harry, as if to ask where Draco had gone.

Harry was disgusted. What a fucking bastard! _Where was Draco?_ Probably trying to kill himself!

Lucius looked away from Harry and back to Voldemort, blankly.

Voldemort tilted his head back up, and his jaw was clenched, hard, "Where is he, Lucius?"

Lucius went to respond, but he hesitated, "I'm sorry, my lord," he muttered, and he began to back away. "You can take Draco from me, one day, but you can't take Cornwell from Draco. You won't get Draco out of Cornwell's grasp. Cornwell won't have it. He's given you way too much to be happy about, up to this point. The idea of you getting into Draco's head is, probably, the worst possible thing Cornwell would ever stand to see happen, and if Draco knew that his father was who he was, I'm sure he'd feel exactly the same way."

"LUCIUS!" Voldemort bellowed, his wand pointed at Lucius within seconds. "Draco _knows _about Cornwell?"

Harry's jaw dropped. Around the corner, Draco reappeared, and he appeared to seem totally liberated.

Lucius did not blink, "He's always known, my lord, since he was a boy."

"But—"

Lucius, finally, for the first time, genuinely hesitated about what he said, next, "Cornwell lived with us, my lord, until Draco was fourteen."

"WHAT!"

"My lord," Lucius bowed his head. "I'm a father first, your servant second. Draco never believed so, however, but he still chose me over Cornwell, my lord. Whatever it was that made him turn to me over Cornwell, I will never know, but I've heard he and Cornwell are on terms, again, like they once were—though, I'm sure they're not the great terms they were once on. Draco's stubborn and Cornwell is unapologetic. I know you are not pleased, my lord, but Draco is my son. I wasn't going to lie to him, and Cornwell wasn't going to just turn his back."

"I can't even..." Voldemort tossed his wand to the floor and turned away from Lucius, stuttering and steaming.

Harry saw Lucius look at Draco. Draco's skin was the color of white paint, but his eyes were nearly on fire.

"Lucius, if you don't tell me where Cornwell is, I will kill Draco, myself."

"My lord," Lucius quietly replied, "don't you suppose that I'm under strong protection, right now?"

Draco's nose snarled. God-damnit.

Voldemort turned around, silently.

Draco shivered as the man stared at his father, with lethally unapologetic eyes.

Lucius's eyes returned the emotion, which seemed to infuriate Voldemort even more, "Enough protection to question your authority in front of the others, as I have? Don't you suppose that I won't be divulging anything to you, anything of importance? And... don't you suppose that Cornwell, being that he's openly out of hiding, though no one has even seen him aside from, well, Draco, is out in the open for a reason? Don't you think that something much larger than what you think is going on?"

Voldemort took the one, solitary seat next to the table, and he stared at Lucius, "I suppose you're clueless?"

"I am, my lord. All I know is that I'm under extreme protection, and I don't doubt Cornwell is one of those protecting me right now—for the sake of Draco, my lord. Cornwell doesn't care about my safety. Cornwell knows you want him, but he's not going to let you get close to Draco. He's going to assume that you're after everyone he might care about."

"Everyone he cares about is DEAD, LUCIUS._ I MADE SURE OF IT_."

Harry's lips parted. Cornwell Black... was the mother-fucking-missing piece of the puzzle. Harry felt on the verge of spontaneously combusting to the point that it was physically hurting him and pounding at his joints, as a way to break through the skin.

"MY LORD," Lucius barked back, over him. "You've _not_ outwitted Cornwell. You may have killed those important to him, but you have NOT taken everyone who means something to him—and, God, my lord, you have no idea who's dead and who's not."

Harry's teeth clenched together. He was far too furious to listen to Lucius, anymore.

_Why had no one ever told him about Cornwell Black_?

Why had no one ever made the point of divulging intimate details about one of his father's best friend?

Why had he never read about Cornwell? Heard about him? Not even rumors! Nothing! This man had come out of no where, only weeks before. He had come in with the most welcoming, warm aura, and the most genuinely friendly, caring eyes. He was kind, and sweet, gentle and innocent. Sure, Cornwell was, at times, very darkly genius in his eyes. He was intelligent in a way that Harry had never imagined intelligence to be, and he had been nothing but loving to Harry—nothing but _crazy_ about Draco, since the moment Harry had set eyes onto him.

What was it that Cornwell had given up? What, exactly, _was_ the legend of Cornwell Black? And why did it seem so important, yet so flawed, that it could not be spoken about?

And, why, in Merlin's—or God's—or whoever's—name, did Tom Marvolo Riddle—Lord _Voldemort_—speak about this character, this Cornwell Black, with such intrigue and damnation that it seemed to spark of near adoration and rivalry in Voldemort's tone? What was it that Cornwell had done? What had he been? He had been young, the same age, at least, of Harry's own father. He couldn't have been important to the Ministry, because he had only been three years out of Hogwarts. What he could have been, Harry could not fathom or imagine.

But, whatever Cornwell Black was, or whoever he was, was someone kept out of history books, kept out of talk about Voldemort, and kept out of Harry's life, when he so obviously had been an important factor in Harry's father's life. This man was someone that Voldemort spoke of extreme distaste of. He had said that he had tried to do away with all of the people in Cornwell's life who Cornwell had cared about!

Cornwell was obviously someone who Voldemort knew was an enemy. But, why?

Why? Why was Cornwell Black so secretive? Why had he never, EVER, not even in passing, been mentioned to Harry? The man had been an INTRICATE part of James Potter's life, and probably of Harry's mother's life, as well! He had been friends—cousin's, even—with Sirius, which meant Remus had known him, as well. All of these people had known Cornwell Black—his professors, his friends' parents—and Cornwell had never been mentioned! Not ever! But, why! Why!

Harry was infuriated. He was missing huge strides of information, and he needed them to stay sane.

"Cornwell is fifteen steps ahead of you, my lord."

"He's not, Lucius."

Lucius sighed, aloud, "My lord," he breathed, with sincere honesty. "He's back for a _reason_."

"Obviously, Lucius. He's back to kill me."

"Yes, my lord, he's back to kill you, and I'm sure he didn't come unprepared to do so, and he's not the one who will do it. He's far too clever for that."

Voldemort peered, eerily, at Lucius, "What was that?"

But, Lucius turned his head away from Voldemort, "I'm sorry, my lord."

"I don't suppose I could kill you in dream-state."

"No, my lord, there are those forces who have seen to it that I'm very—perhaps—_immortal_ right now."

The word seemed to make Voldemort spasm, "There are only a handful of men that powerful, Lucius, and I'm one of them."

"No offense, my lord, but if the other men teamed up to work together... you'd have no chance."

"Gregarold, Dumbledore, Cornwell—Halleite, Spare? _All of them_?"

"I was only being hypothetical, my lord—"

"Lucius, why do you think I want Draco? Judas? Why did you think I wanted Harry Potter?" He paused, and he laughed an evil, nearly giddy laugh, his fingertips almost covering his lips as if what he were about to speak was so good it was sinful. "Draco, powerful. Judas, powerful. Harry Potter—Gods, that boy would have been more powerful than me, than Cornwell, than Dumbledore—and, more powerful than his father—his poor father, could have been the most brilliant wizard of all time. So sorrowful his son was of my interest, in the long run, and too bad for his son that his father and Cornwell developed the friendship they did—I crave the sons of the powerful, my dear Lucius, with clear paths and no one having told them about those paths," Voldemort whispered with an evilly milky, convincingly menacing whisper.

Harry saw that Lucius could hardly even raise his eyes.

Voldemort turned away from Lucius, "Draco is first to me, now. He's not only your heir, with your background, but he has the blood of Cornwell Black—and, dear Harry, the blood of James Potter. Oh, Cornwell and James, could you imagine what would have happened if Harry and Draco had ever known? Oh, what they could have done to me! _What they could have done_!" Lucius spat. "_What they could have done to the world_! If only Harry hadn't been like his father, Lucius. And, your Draco is following in Potter's _footsteps_," he said _footsteps_ almost teasingly. "Saying no to me never did Harry any good, Lucius. I suggest you contact Draco. And, Judas, too. I've heard he's not fond of me."

Lucius closed his eyes, "My lord, you should not have said that."

"Should not have said what?"

"Oh, my lord, you should _not_ have said that," Lucius repeated, sorrowfully.

Voldemort should not have just indulged in being gleeful in admitting that Draco and Harry could have done... _anything_ to him—to the world—to _each other_. Power, in the hands of young men, was far more dangerous than it was in the hands of those who abused it at elder ages. Therefore, such a power in the hands of Harry or Draco, or both of them, would either prove to be completely genius or completely devastating. It ruined young men for the rest of their lives—case in point, Voldemort, himself.

"They're all against me, Lucius. I just don't understand! I could offer them everything and anything."

"They don't WANT everything and anything, my lord!" Lucius exclaimed, and it sounded as if he wanted to hit Voldemort upside the head for not getting the picture. "They're different. _Times_ are different. They have options—they have Dumbledore and the Order. Draco was never fond of Dumbledore, but he always stayed for a reason, even when I suggested other schools. He was adament. He won't be a puppet, my lord. For God's sake, he's _Cornwell's_ son—he'd NEVER be a puppet of yours. He was practically born with hatred for you in his blood. I tried to sway him, but he was never interested, no matter what I threw at him, because _it's in his blood_, my lord."

"Well, why do they have to use it against me?"

"Because they ARE against you!" Lucius haggled, with a great, monstrous roll of his eyes.

Harry was speechless. Voldemort sounded like a hurt, offended child when speaking of he and Draco.

And, a couple of very silent minutes later, it was Voldemort who finally spoke, though both Harry and Draco were no longer watching, but down standing behind their corners and listening, both too emotional and caught in their own thoughts to need to pay attention to the physical conversation taking place below the words between Lucius and Voldemort. And, Voldemort spoke with hesitance, and even sadness, for Lucius, over his own agenda, "I won't have another incident like Potter's, Lucius. Draco will be mine."

Draco tilted his head back and up, standing against the cold wall. _Like hell, you fucking bastard._

"No, my lord, I can guarantee you that you will not have Draco under his free will. Cornwell isn't the only reason."

There was a pause.

Harry was the other reason. Like _bloody hell_ would Voldemort take _Draco_ away from Harry. _No. Fucking. Way._

"If Draco and Potter had ever known, my lord, I don't doubt they would have figured out how to bring you down."

"Possibly, when they were older," Voldemort spoke as if he were mourning the loss of what could have been, as if he would have welcomed the thought of Draco and Harry trying to bring him to his demise. "At sixteen and seventeen, however? Of course not. They're young, They always clashed too much to ever be anything great, together, anyhow. I suppose we don't have to worry about that, do we, Lucius? Potter is gone."

And, he laughed. 

Draco's entire face tightened, and his mouth scrunched until it was as hard as a rock.

Harry slipped down the wall, in the hallway, silently, in his soundless, cotton pajama pants and shirt.

_Cruel, sadistic, evil bastard—_Harry wanted him dead. Gone. Bloodied-up. Knocked out. Lifeless. Just _gone_!

"It's only Draco and Judas. I could sway Judas, easily. All I would have to do for Draco is dangle glory at him, and he'd cave. Or, if he's anything like you, I could dangle a little boy-toy at him—kidding, kidding, don't give me that glare, Lucius. I was only kidding." He paused. "I was trying to reminisce. I suppose we can no longer do that, can we, my lovely, _precious_ Lucius Malfoy? I suppose our interests are driving us apart, at last."

Draco was rubbing his face, nearly raw. His body ached all over, but not nearly as bad as his heart.

"Oh, my lord, I think you have something right, tonight, at long last," Lucius chuckled, as he backed away from Voldemort. "As for Draco, you underestimate the powerful. Draco's had glory. Draco's had sex. Draco has had... _everything_. There is nothing you could offer to him that he hasn't already had or that hasn't already been taken from him."

Harry peeked out at them, from the floor, for the first time in what seemed to be hours. _Interesting._

Voldemort stood up with a distracted smile, "Nice visit, Lucius. Do come back, soon."

"Might we ever meet like this, again."

"We will meet again, Lucius."

"Shall I rephrase?" Voldemort's eyes flickered with slight anger. "We might never meet under friendly terms again, my lord. Should you decide to take your chances on Draco, I don't doubt that I will not let my respect for you get in the way of my anger. Cornwell will protect Draco, as will the... others. Don't make me turn my back on you, my lord."

"If you do, Lucius, I'd turn my head the other way. Draco may be your son, and an important part of my plans, but I will never harm you, Lucius. To do so, I would forsake everything that I have been and everything we have shared. I have seen your hesitance with Draco for years, now. Of course, knowing that he's known about Cornwell all along has... drastically changed everything—still, Lucius, I could not turn my back to you, ever. But, my face... _perhaps_."

Harry blinked, and he mouthed to himself, completely bewildered and befuddled, "_What_?"

But, Voldemort changed the subject, "Who are these forces, Lucius? You're a tease—always have been."

"There is really only one person you won't realize is out there until you meet him, again, my lord."

Harry.

Lucius didn't give Voldemort time to interrupt or question him, for the first time, "In the meantime, do I have your word on Draco?"

"Yes, for now you do, Lucius, until I figure out how to correct your betrayal, as, like I've said, I've not expected Draco to have been as knowledgeable as he has been on Cornwell—which does present a monstrous problem." It was very clear, at the way Voldemort kept pressing this issue, that he was not, at all, happy with what he had been told, and he made it so very clearly. "As for Judas, I can't say there is anything stopping me."

Harry saw Lucius try not to smirk, "Sure."

Harry's left eyebrow rose, and he leaned forward with more interest.

With that, Voldemort turned and left Lucius standing in the hallway, alone.

Lucius did not dare look at Draco. Instead, he stared directly above the door Voldemort had disappeared into, "Don't take what you heard the wrong way. I don't doubt, after this, you'll be on the offensive with Cornwell, possibly as soon as you wake up, but you'll be taking it the wrong way. He's a good man, and there is a reason we never told you why he did what he did with himself." He paused, rubbing his hands over his head, distractedly. His eyes flickered, bravely, to Draco, who was standing, visible, with furiously intense eyes. And, when Lucius saw, he dropped his hands and closed his eyes. "I brought you both with me for a reason—and, I can't say anything more about what's going on or why, but at least now you know that there is someone else who knows about you." And, he looked at Harry. "It was his brainchild. He thought he saw something in the both of you that wasn't hatred in a picture in the Prophet, and I can't say I believe you won't kill each other, but he thinks otherwise." And, he carefully looked back at Draco. "To leave, you say Morsmoreda and picture yourself waking up."

Draco's mouth was twisted.

Harry stepped out from his corner, too, about three inches.

Lucius looked at him, and then back to Draco, "Cornwell is not in touch with anyone else. He helped set this up, and then he disappeared and decided not to keep contact, which means he doesn't know that I'm showing you this. He wants as little to do with you two and this setup as possible. He knew you'd find out, but he didn't know when. He's not in contact with anyone, and no one, including me, knows where he is. I know you two do, but it should stay silent. Truth is, he thinks highly of both of your abilities—"

Draco went to open his mouth, but Harry stomped his foot down on the ground.

_No! Draco! God-damnit!_

Draco restrained himself, looking at Harry, who was just shaking his head as if to tell Draco to not breathe.

DRACO HAD QUESTIONS! What had been said was not acceptable. Cornwell was his... _papa_. That was supposed to be the only big secret in Draco's life.

Draco fumed and clutched his hands over his head, as if to symbolize that his head was about to explode.

"You know some of his past, now, but don't be fooled. He is still the same man—a very _good_ man."

Draco knew nothing! He had heard his father mentioned! Cornwell! Cornwell was supposed to have been stripped of magic, completely! He was supposed to be the loving, doting father that Draco had grown up knowing him as, with blind eyes and pure trust. This man was supposed to have no idea what was going on with Draco and Harry. And, suddenly, he knew? Not only did he know, but he was a huge part of it? He was a huge part of the past of their entire world! He was, apparently, a huge part of _Harry's_ father's life, and... there were just so many things that made sense about Cornwell, and so many snippets of information that Draco felt he was missing, and it was those snippets that did not make him fail to feel the most furious betrayal he was sure he had ever experienced. He had never loved a person like he loved who Cornwell had been to him what no one ever had been, but as he stood there, trapped in some freakish dream, the only thing he knew about Cornwell was that he was not who Draco had thought him to be.

Draco had never been told the secrets of Cornwell's past. He knew, now, that Cornwell was powerful and had fought Voldemort—two things which he was VERY distractedly angry over not _ever_ being told. Those things shouldn't have just skipped the intake of time! He should have been told! He should have known! He should not have been lied to! Sure, he had known that there were things about Cornwell that his mother told him he had been too young to handle, or he was better off not knowing just yet, but _this_? He hardly knew anything, at all, and he felt like he had been punched in the stomach and had his heart ripped out at the same time.

And, then Lucius, standing in front of him, a man Draco loved and, at times, loathed, was asking Draco to trust that Cornwell was a good man? How was Draco supposed to believe anything that came out of the mouths of anyone around him? His mother, his father—Lucius—or Cornwell—or... or whoever his father would be the next day! Dumbledore had lied. Voldemort had lied. Even Harry had lied to him, when he had come into Draco's life in the form of an old childhood friend.

Everything was a _big _lie. Everything had fallen apart over the last couple of years, and that very summer was the beginning of the last spiral, and he could feel it tingling in his blood. His friends! Himself! His parents! His lifestyle! His morals! His beliefs! His childhood enemy! His _everything_ had gone to hell! _Everything_ had changed since he had walked out of Hogwarts, the very last time. He was practically in-love with Harry Potter's entire existence, and he would have rather died in his own death than to go on without Harry, from there on out.

Harry was the only person who was going to keep him sane, because he was the only person Draco was sure things would never effect in a way that effects had already damaged them both. He didn't want to keep sight of anything ahead of him without Harry, and for many reasons which he wasn't ashamed of or unknowing of. There were a lot of questions to be answered, and a lot that had to be sorted out before they could ask questions—to themselves, to each other, and last of all, and most importantly, _Cornwell_.

Harry was the friend Draco had never had, and they hadn't even been friends for very long.

Draco would damn himself to hell before he turned his back to Harry. They were meant to be friends.

Life just had not worked out that way on the first go, was all.

Draco's thoughts shifted away from Harry and to Cornwell, again. He couldn't simply swallow the new information. Cornwell _had_ been the loving, doting, innocent father figure of Draco's past—and, that was all that kept flashing over Draco's eyes, and suddenly it had taken a new light. The idea that Cornwell had been in proverbial hiding, and Draco had never realized it, hurt more than anything. They had gone to church together! Other people had seen Cornwell! And, he was supposed to have been in hiding? This, to Draco, made even less sense than anything he had ever heard.

With his thoughts all over the place, trying to make sense of everything he had just learned, Draco raked his fingers through his hair, and he just looked at Harry, completely speechless.

Harry tried to give a look of understanding, his head nodding, twice, to show sympathy. He knew it was hardly comforting. He knew it was hardly anything, and Draco probably didn't give a damn whether Harry said a word or even breathed in his direction. The boy opposite of him seemed completely, completely devastated and distressed, with a mess full of bright hair and light eyes, that were usually so glinted with genuine intent and contented gleams, that seemed dazed and astronomical units away from where they were standing.

"I don't know how he'll react if you corner him."

Draco went to respond, again, but Harry slammed his foot down.

When Draco looked back at him, very frustrated over not being able to respond to the world that had just been turned upside down, ONCE AGAIN, Harry pretended to zipper his mouth, as if Draco should have done the same. He knew Draco was going to have a fit when they were back in the physical world and awake. A fit was an understatement, and Harry felt very terrible for Draco. Even his heart ached—his heart was _aching_ for _Draco Malfoy_. He couldn't imagine having just overheard what Draco had heard and being in that position, with two fathers, who he cared about very much, on two different ends of a spectrum, and both trying to protect him, but he had been lied to in the process.

Draco had been lied to _big_ time. Perhaps no one had meant to lie to him, nor hurt him, but they obviously had.

It was Draco's world, and he knew nothing of the truths of it. He couldn't fathom how deep Cornwell was into whatever he was into. Why was it that Voldemort spoke of Cornwell with such hesitance? He even spoke with a disappointment and agitation. He had said that he never had been able to understand Cornwell, and he had used it to his advantage, which mean that Cornwell and Voldemort had had some sort of relationship in the past. But, what kind of relationship?

They never could have been friendly, and Draco was sure of that above all other things.

The largest question, which Draco admittedly could feel the enormous pull of, in his gut, was the question that settled on the very bottom of his list, though he knew it should have been on top, because what Draco was, in Voldemort's scheme of things, was the reason why, supposedly, Cornwell had come back from the supposed hidden-life he had been living. Draco Malfoy... was what? WHAT was his blood? WHAT had made Cornwell WANT Voldemort? And, why was it Voldemort hadn't seemed to have any inkling about where Cornwell had been, or why, or who with. And, what did Voldemort—the darkest lord, the darkest evil, on Earth, want with _Draco Malfoy_—no, Draco _Black_?

And, finally, Lucius looked right to Draco. He went to say something, but he closed his mouth and swallowed.

Draco's lips fumbled together, very boyishly, and he tried not to make it obvious that he was tearful.

Harry pretended not to notice the situation, looking about the hallway around him, very carefully.

"I'm safe—not free or happy, but safe."

Draco pointed at Harry, as if to suggest Harry had told him so.

Lucius nodded, once, "Go on, we've already spoken too much."

Harry looked at Draco and pointed, as if to say, "You, first, Malfoy."

Draco stared at his father. His body burned to say the words he could not. Instead, he mouthed them, "I'm sorry."

Lucius smiled with a closed mouth, contentedly, and he nodded at Draco, nearly with his nose, affectionately.

If Harry had been expecting Draco to put up some sort of front and refuse to leave, he had another thing coming. Draco turned away from Lucius, from his father, with one last glance that Harry had not dared to intrude upon. And, then, like that, Draco mouthed something and was then gone, vanished from the strange, cold eerie hallway that neither had planned on ever visiting. This left Harry completely alone with Lucius Malfoy, whom, regardless of whether or not was loving toward Draco, could care less about Harry.

Deciding that he would much rather be making sure Draco wasn't already awake and charging out of some room, on a mission to find Cornwell and assault him, Harry turned away from Lucius, who had simply looked at him, almost as if there was something he wanted to say. But, anything that Lucius Malfoy would have had to say to Harry didn't matter, at least not at that moment. He stepped back behind his corner, closed his eyes, pictured himself waking up and murmured a quiet, "Morsmoreda," as he began strolling back toward the dark barrier at the end of the hallway he had, apparently, entered through.

Harry awoke with a start. It was almost as if he had just simply walked out of a dream. Not bothering to think anything about where they had actually been, but rather what they had heard, Harry threw himself off of the bed, fighting with the covers and pillows that seemed to follow him, picking unnecessary fights with his limbs. He tore off of the bed and was out his bedroom door within seconds, tearing down the hallways of the Malfoy manor with the intent of skidding in front of Draco's study door and making sure that Draco hadn't gone off and done anything rash. Rash was not good.

Harry flew down the grand, front entry-room's elegant stairs, his left hand smoothly gliding down the banister. Without shoes and without concentrating on the fact that he was running down the steps, he was amazed that he hadn't tripped by the time he had reached the ground floor of the Malfoy's exquisitely complex, intricate estate. It was hard enough to deal with all of the hallways, and Harry had since given up on trying to figure out his way around. He stuck with the basics—his bedroom, the studies, the kitchen, the dining room and the main hall. Other than that, it was far too much work to put into learning the floor-plans of a house when he had other things on his mind, even though he was sure it would have been the smarter move to know the Malfoy-estate like the back of his hand.

Harry jogged across the large room until he reached a long hallway that he knew to lead to Draco's study. He hurried down it, rubbing his hands together in front of him. But, halfway down the hallway, Harry began to slow his pace. Draco wasn't going to do anything stupid. He was far too level-headed to go off and confront Cornwell without having calmed down. Right? No? The information that Draco digested would probably take a few minutes to even slightly BEGIN to settle into his head. Even Harry was having a hard time with it.

It was when Harry turned that last corner to Draco's study, passing all of the other closed, blank doors without so much as a glance, that he was finally met with commotion. Because, as he turned that very corner, the doorway that opened up into the last hallway, which led to Draco's study, flew open.

The door handle smashed so loudly into the wall that some of the picture frames, hanging on the walls, shook and slanted on their angles. 

Draco never made it through the doorway.

Harry rushed him and threw his hands out, immediately, onto Draco's shoulders, pushing Draco back in through the doorway, gently, although Draco didn't really battle. He was hissing all sorts of bits of useless information, his eyes searching Harry for answers which they both knew Harry didn't have.

As soon as Harry had Draco contained within the hallway, he closed the door behind him and turned around, exhaling a low, breathless sigh of exhaustion and hopelessness. 

Draco just stood against the wall with his hands on his sides, his chin tilted down. He couldn't take his eyes off of the floor. His intentions and his thoughts were all sitting on that floor, because they were not good thoughts, and they were not good intentions. He was sure he was experiencing emotions he had never felt so extremely, before. His sadness had been taken over by anger—which was not something that Draco had ever been known for taking part of. He was never quick-to-temper, but nothing about the past made any sense to him, as he stood there, completely exasperated and unfocused.

At last, Harry stepped away from the door, silently. He stopped a couple of feet later, his eyes latched onto Draco and afraid to break away. He had never seen Draco look so intense, which was saying a lot. This intensity was something more overpowering and deeply rooted than it had ever seem to be, at least from Harry's perspective. And, he had no idea what to say. He had no idea what to do. All he knew was that he was glad he had caught Draco before he had escaped his study and set on a rampage for Cornwell and answers.

Draco looked up at Harry, silently.

Harry didn't do anything, just stood there with his hands at his sides.

Draco dropped his hands from his sides and slid them up over his face, down his face, to his cheeks, and then they cupped over his ears. But, they dropped away, again, because they didn't seem to help Draco's nerves at all. Nothing, Draco was sure, would even be able to come close to soothing away his current anger. He wanted to do _something_, but he didn't know what that something was. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick. He didn't want to cry or mope. He wanted to punch, shove, and bloody something or anything—hell, everything.

Noticing that all of the people in the paintings were staring between himself and Draco, Harry knew it would be best if they were to take their conversation into Draco's study, which was where Draco appeared to feel safest, anyway. With a brave step toward Draco, he cleared his throat, "Flora," he muttered, into the air, as he started for Draco's brooding, stiff, tense, lean figure on the wall.

Draco said nothing, just waited and watched for what Harry was doing.

As Harry walked by Draco, he extended his right hand and wrapped it around Draco's wrist, and he pulled Draco along with him, heading back for the study's wide-open door. There was no struggle from behind him, but rather a knowingly hesitant walk. He felt horrible for Draco. All he knew was that he was going to make Draco stay in his study, at least for an hour, until he calmed down.

"Yes, sir, Mister Cliffdale, sir?"

Harry looked over his left shoulder, as he swung Draco around his right side, in a circular motion, and into the study's doorway. His eyes landed on Flora, who was just standing there, in the center of the hallway, having just appeared with a small _pop_. Harry didn't let go of Draco's hand, and he didn't yet answer Flora. He turned back to Draco and gave the Slytherin a nod of his head to walk into the study, as he let go of the wrist. Without a hassle, Draco walked in, right to one of his sofas, he tore off his glasses, threw them at the wall and then kicked the carved wooden leg of his coffee table, which resulted in it sliding a good foot toward the fireplace.

With a grimace, Harry turned his attention back to Flora, who had joined him in the doorway.

"Sir, what may I get for you?"

Harry didn't force a smile, because he didn't feel it was appropriate for the situation, "What does Draco usually ask for?"

"At this time of night, sir, a two-range butter-beer."

With a great sigh of hesitant laughter, imagining what would happen if Draco decided to get at-all intoxicated that night, Harry shook his head, "No, that definitely won't do. Coffee, do you have coffee?" She nodded, her eyes locked onto Draco. She appeared truly worried, and seemed almost as if she wanted to run to Draco and ask him if he was okay. He could see the pain in her eyes, as she lowered her eyes and began to back away from the doorway. He turned around and watched her, his eyes squinted. "Thank-you, Flora. But, could you bring a non-alcoholic butter-beer, too?" She simply nodded.

When she disappeared, Harry walked in and closed the door behind him.


	13. How to Brave a Fall

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** Thanks for reviewing, guys:D! I hope the next chapters might answer some of your questions! I hope, I hope! And, I hope some more! And, I hope even more than that that you enjoy this chapter. Because... yes! Thanks, again. :D!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Thirteen

How to Brave a Fall

Draco was lounged out over his couch, with his eyes closed. His head was hurting. His heart was hurting. His damn chest was aching, and it wasn't even physically. Damnit, he hadn't hurt so bad, emotionally, in years—in fucking fact, the last time he had felt so deathly, emotionally ill was when Cornwell had left. He sighed, toying with the collar of his T-shirt, aggravated that he was wearing clothes. He felt hot. He wasn't sure if his temperature had actually risen, if it was hot in the room, or if his body was just in such overload of emotions and blood-boiling that it was just a reaction of his inner self trying to claw out of his body and break free of his life. He could no longer keep it in, and thoughts just started spewing out of his mouth, "Jesus Christ, the fucking bloody bastard—I should have fucking known, Potter! _I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN_! What in the... what is _wrong_ with me? Fucking BASTARDS! All of the things that never fit! Why Lucius never forced me! The bastard knew! I don't know what it is that they know and I don't know, but I SHOULD fucking know why I've been sold to the GOD-DAMN dark lord since I was born—I'm cursed, god-DAMNIT."

Harry stood at the side of the soda, closest to Draco's feet, "You're not _cursed_." That was all he could manage.

"_Oh, fuck-you, Potter._"

Harry took no offense, "At least you know that Cornwell is against the bastard, Draco. Isn't that a better—"

"I DON'T GIVE a _damn_ about that, Potter! It's not the fact that he is who he is! I don't even know who he is! It's the fact that no one has ever told me _what_ he is. I was always told I couldn't handle it—and... and, then I fucking get sucked into a nightmare where I learn that Cornwell—my fucking father, Cornwell—is not the bloody saint I was hoping him to be—shut up, Potter, okay? I know, I know, I fucking know that, whatever he is, he's against Voldemort. That's so bloody fitting, isn't it? Did you hear them, Potter? Did you hear? That bloody monster talking about my father like some enemy—MY FATHER is an ENEMY of VOLDEMORT, POTTER! And, not only that, _but we don't even know why_! And, he comes back into my life, with a little boy, and a cheerful smile, and I just accept it like it's nothing, because I care—and, he's not even here for me, Potter! He's not here for me, he's here to finish off what—something, because that bastard, POTTER, is after ME—fucking, a bloody—bloody... God, I'm YOU."

Harry picked up a pillow from the end of the couch. He walked behind the couch, listening to Draco ramble on about how angry he was. Draco knew perfectly well that Cornwell cared about him. Lucius had even said that Cornwell hadn't wanted Draco to know what he was—no one was supposed to know what Cornwell was, and it appeared that only a handful of people did know who he was, and why he had even been brought up in conversation. With a giant gurgle of annoyance, Harry dropped the pillow over Draco's face, just to shut him up, "You're not me, Malfoy. You're not dead, not yet, so don't jump the cauldron." When he saw Draco paw at his shirt collar, Harry continued. "You know he's here for you, Draco. You're probably the ONLY reason he's here, obviously. If you weren't at risk right now, and he felt you were in danger, he wouldn't have come out of the woodworks like he did, would he have? But, he did, Malfoy, okay? For whatever reason that may be outside of you being his son, he wants to _protect_ you."

Draco sat up, took the pillow and threw it onto the floor, frustrated, "From _what_, is the question, Potter. I want to know."

"What, and you don't think I do, Malfoy? Granted, he's your father, but he's a huge piece of my entire life, a piece no one ever fucking even gave a damn to tell me about while I've been trying to_ wage this god-damn war on_ _my_ shoulders! A war, Malfoy." Harry stood up from sitting on the side of the couch, his forehead wrinkled. "No one thought to tell me about Cornwell while I was alive.. If someone would have told me, maybe I wouldn't be... _dead_! He's obviously a huge part of whatever the hell happened with the Order." He knew he was talking and thinking in circles. So, he turned back to Draco. "You need to be partial here, okay? I know, that makes me a gigantic arse for telling you not to be so devastated over the fact your father wasn't who you thought he was, and that Voldemort, apparently, wants you because of what Cornwell is, but look at what we know, now, versus what we didn't know _before_."

Draco was so unwounded that it worried him. Potter had a very large, stable point.

Harry turned around from standing in front of the bright, unlit fireplace, thinking over Draco's silence. But, Draco didn't appear to be angry over Harry's words, which was good. He did care about what Draco had learned, but at the same time, they had just learned a huge piece of information that brought them so much closer to a truth that they were further-than-ever from finding. They didn't even know what they were looking for, but they had just been given a piece of a puzzle. Harry couldn't help but wonder what else had been kept from him, and if there were anymore other secrets lurking around that no one had ever thought important to tell him, "You heard what Lucius said, Draco. Cornwell's a good man, and you know that. Whatever he is, or was, it was kept from you for a reason. He's here to make sure you're safe, and, apparently, he doesn't want to be blatantly involved in bringing Voldemort down. He wants me to do that—and, you're supposed to help me. He set it up that way, undoubtedly knowing all of the risks for us and you, especially, and maybe he sees something between us that we see in each other, Draco, and no one else does. Trust Lucius, Malfoy. Trust Cornwell. Trust _me_."

"I do trust you, Potter, and I trust them to a certain degree, but I can only look past so much of my own history before it becomes impossible to keep on turning my head," Draco returned, resting back against the plush cushion behind his sitting form. He smoothed his hands down his thighs, over his pants, nervously licking over his bottom lip. He was angry over being lied to. He was angry that no one had ever made it a point to tell him that Cornwell had been a major player against Voldemort. But, then, again, Lucius had been, and still was, apparently, a major player _for_ Voldemort, who also had never known that Draco even knew about Cornwell being his father. It wasn't Draco who had been betrayed the most, that night. It was, without a doubt, Lord Voldemort.

"I want to know who he is."

Harry collapsed down beside Draco and sat equally as still, dazed, "I want to know what he did."

Draco's top teeth pulled over his numb bottom lip. He looked away from a drawing of a dragon hanging on the wall that they were both staring at. It was a large, very tall wall, with paintings and wall-hangings of all different sizes and themes scattered in a way that made it look just right. It was homey, and warm, and each of the things hanging meant something to him. His study was the outer most part of his soul. It was the only place, in the world, that he felt truly at home in, and that was because he had made it his own, and no one had ever told him what he could or could not do with it. It was the one thing, the one place, the one instance, where no one else could dictate his ideas and theorems and philosophies. "How am I supposed to face him, Potter?"

Harry lowered his eyes from a random dragon drawing. It had been the first piece to catch his eye on the wall, which was interesting because it wasn't the largest, and it certainly wasn't the most colorful or noticeable. He didn't know what to say to Draco about Cornwell. He just didn't. All he could really do was sit there and listen. Harry had never even had a father in his life, so giving advice about what to do with Cornwell, especially when the situation so extremely affected them both, just wasn't going to happen. He didn't have an answer to give Draco, to make it seem easier than it was. Because, it wasn't an easy situation.

When Harry's eyes lifted to Draco's profile, he felt so helpless that it made something in his gut feel ill. He looked down at his opened hands, in his lap, thinking over Draco's predicament. He was looking at Draco so differently than he once had. Sometimes, Draco was a friend. Sometimes, Harry felt something in him that cared for Draco like a brother, like that very instant, while they were sitting there, side by side, thinking over the same questions for different reasons. Other times, of course, Draco was... well, just _Draco_ and every possible emotion that Harry felt was not susceptible to human understanding. His relationship with Draco was its own planet, its own cycle. It had its own principles. "At least we know that it can't possibly be a bad thing, can it be? He's _against_ Voldemort." He paused. "That says something, doesn't it?"

"It says he's against Voldemort, Potter, and that's _all_ it says," Draco responded, quietly, as he turned his head.

As if that wasn't an important fact! Of course, to Draco, it wasn't going to be. Harry tried again, "You need to ask him."

Draco snorted, and he looked away from the brown eyes looking back to his. After a moment, he stopped his bitter, cynical laughs, and his eyes flickered back to those still seriously waiting for his own. Potter wasn't kidding. It wasn't like Draco could just go in and ask Cornwell what he had done. It would be far too suspicious. But, then, again, there were easy ways to side-step the suspicious parts of it. Draco was a good-enough actor, and no one had ever been able to argue that. He wrapped his arms over his chest, his eyes beginning to float up to the ceiling, in a lost calamity of a mind. He was so void of something that he could not place, "You looked like you."

"Huh?"

Draco smirked, though in a friendly way, "Dark hair, green eyes, glasses." And, his eyes set onto Harry, cautiously. "You know, _you_.'

Harry remembered this. Whereas Draco seemed to find it fascinating, Harry found it heart-breaking, "Yeah."

_Yeah_? Draco's eyes slowly slanted down toward the left, "You looked good." What? Draco!_ Jesus_. _That's good, Draco, go ahead and tell him he looked good in a body that he no longer has! Idiot._

"You mean, not dead, pale and stiff?"

Draco lowered his chin to his chest. All thoughts of Cornwell subsided, and all he could do was feel awkward.

Harry shifted, and he tore his eyes away from his hands. He looked at Draco, battling with himself, inside. Draco was just staring at him, with his head tilted down. He didn't seem offended, just unsure of what to say. Granted, Harry had bitten his last comment very hard, at Draco, which he probably shouldn't have done, considering the events of the last hour or so. It was just that thinking of himself, and remembering how it felt to be in his old body, it really broke his heart. He could feel the knocking at his chest when he thought about how good it had felt to pull his old glasses off of his eyes and then shove them right back on. He remembered how well his hands had fit over his face, and how all of the curves on his face felt good, how it felt right, and how, as Harry sat there, with Judas Cliffdale's face, everything seemed even more foreign than it had ever been, "Sorry."

Draco didn't look away from Harry. He felt something grumbling in the back of his head. He simply urged, "Potter."

"Slytherin." Harry couldn't just call him Malfoy, anymore! But, he couldn't call him _Black_! And, not _Draco_! Calling Draco by his name, during such a vulnerable moment, was something Harry wasn't sure he was ready for. At least, not yet. He hadn't meant "Slytherin" in a nasty way, either. It was just what had come tumbling out of his mouth, and when he began to realize it, he grimaced, but when he went to take a glance at Draco, Draco was hardly offended.

Draco tried not to laugh at the accusing name thrown at him, "For what it's worth? When I saw your face, I nearly cried."

Harry and Draco looked at each other, and Draco was the first to snort with embarrassed laughter, as he looked away.

Harry turned his head away, chuckling deep from within his throat as he crossed his arms over his chest, "Did you?"

When Draco looked back to the equally-aged wizard beside him, the wizard who had his best and worst secrets, and the best and worst of Draco's memories, he couldn't help that he was smiling, again. He wasn't grinning. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't even giving a half-hearted try of an expression. He was simply smiling, teeth and all, and he could feel it. He hadn't grown up smiling a lot, and not because he hadn't had happy times, but just because his grin and smirk had always come natural to him. But, Potter's appearance in his life was far too confusing and disconcerting to treat as if things were the same as they once had been, and they shouldn't have been. He rubbed at the side of his face, and as his hand fell, his eyes fell with it, "Since when do Malfoys cry, Potter? I think you should ask yourself that."

What a punk. Harry rolled his eyes, not scuffled, "I _see_. I suppose it's good thing you're not just a Malfoy, then."

Draco lifted his eyes from his hands, and they were still squinted with wrinkles of contented, friendly, soft amusement.

When Harry's eyes found Draco's questioning his own, he squinted.

Draco immediately imitated it, as if almost pointedly.

Harry hadn't ever realized it, but he squinted his eyes a lot. He didn't know if that was a trait of Judas Cliffdale or of the fact that he no longer had glasses to help him see, and without them, it was just natural habit to squint as he had done when he was in his real body. But, Harry wasn't bothered by Draco's imitation, so he put his attention back onto the wall. And, in the surfaces of the glass-frames in the distance, he saw blurry objects—them.

_Them_.

Harry, Draco. And, it felt right—not awkward, not strange, not even confusing, anymore. It was just _them_.

Harry smiled, suddenly. He wondered how he and Draco had been so separated when the things in their past had put them so closely together. Of course, Draco had known more than Harry, but Harry hadn't known a damn thing, on the ultimate scheme of his past. He knew the basics. He had once thought that nothing could have surprised him about his father—what, with having a Werewolf as a best friend and having been able to transfigure himself into an animagus at such an early age, and having done so brilliantly. But, Cornwell? Draco? Two very distant parts of his life. And, though he knew, at that moment, as he sat there, silently, beside Draco, that their fathers did have a close past, he couldn't help but wonder what the reason was that everyone had kept it from him. "There are parallels that we have to our fathers, you know."

Draco didn't need Harry to say anything else, "Hmm," he quietly added, his eyes returning back onto his hands—those of which Cornwell had given him and nurtured with time and patience and Lucius had skilled with ideals and lessons, some of which had, admittedly, gone over Draco's head. "Our fathers—I'd toast to that."

Harry sat up and leaned forward over his knees, setting his attention down on the floor. He didn't say anything to respond to Draco, but rather let Draco's words settle into the room. Fathers, in general, had impacts on the lives of their children, but for Harry and Draco, the cases were so much more monumental than just the average impact. Their entire lives, it seemed, had been set out before they had the chance to ask anyone otherwise. They had not asked for what they had been dealt, and it seemed that Draco, too, like Harry, did not seem resentful to the idea of his fathers, though neither had made his life easier. This meant, to Harry, that Draco was far more mature than Harry was sure most people were, even at their eldest ages. He frowned, turning toward Draco and resting the left side of his face on the left hand that was supported by his knee, "He wants you, Malfoy."

There was no hesitation or question of who Harry was speaking of.

Draco looked up from his lap and to Harry, with cloudy and sharply serious eyes. Harry's expression was clearly honest. He had spoken quietly. The original problem of Cornwell's relationship with Voldemort had begun to fade, and it, therefore, gave a whole new set of questions time in the spotlight between them. Cornwell, Draco knew, would always be open for discussion between he and Potter. That wasn't something that was closing. That was something that was going to be hovering over them every day, especially because Cornwell lived in the same house as they did. "He can want me all he wants."

Mentally, Harry asked himself how many men and women wanted Draco all they did, and had Draco not give a damn.

Harry just kept his lock gazed onto Draco, seriously, "What do you know about Cornwell's past?"

"Essentially nothing," Draco answered, honestly, with a helpless flutter of his numb lips. He looked away from Harry and to the end-table next to the couch they were sitting on. He leaned over the couch and lifted up a picture-frame from the table. He returned back to sitting, handing the picture-frame, casually, to Harry, who took it and began to examine it. So, Draco did, too. "I was seven, there. That's at Diagon Alley, in the old pub that used to be between the Daily Prophet's Diagon office and Stort's—Stort's was an old wizarding family's private astrology place. Cornwell took me there, once, because I wouldn't stop bugging him about going there. He didn't have the heart to tell me that the Storts were all bogus and phony, so he let me figure it out by myself. Shortly after I told Lucius that they told me I was going to die a horrid death at the age of nine, the place shut down—_coincidence_? I know."

Harry laughed at the idea of a seven-year-old Draco being told he was going to die in two years. The image was oddly amusing, but, at the same time, as Harry's eyes wondered over the smaller version of Draco, in the picture, so innocent and sweet-faces, void of all Malfoy demeanor, he felt less amused. There had once been a time, it seemed, when Malfoy had simply been a small boy making his way through the world, just as any other kid had. But, his face was so innocent—so sweet, so loving. And, in the picture, it was Cornwell sitting in a booth seat, laughing at Draco in such a warm way, in a dark room, though candles were lit on the table. And, Draco was just gazing at Cornwell, with such pride and true love, as if completely stolen of all ideas and thoughts while his father was laughing at him, in such a joyous way. Their love, even through the picture, was something that Harry hadn't even seen between Ron and his dad.

It was the kind of picture that made Harry wish, more than anything, that he had the same sort of memories.

Draco looked away from the picture and to Harry's half-smiling mouth, "Looking back, it's not hard to see how Cornwell hid his identity. When we went to the places we did, he was always accepted with such warmth and such celebration. Those people must have been important to him, and he must have been important to them for them to have held his secret back, to have kept it off of the streets that he was still around, and, albeit, with me. We never trolled through Diagon Alley, outside. We used Floo to get into the places we went, or he apparated me." He had just never given it thought, because he had never been suspicious as to why they had never walked around, outside, in public places, outside and off of the Malfoy property.

Harry's right index fingertip placed down, lightly, over the table at which the image was taken over. The way Cornwell and Draco looked at each other was so momentous. It had always been clear to Harry that it had not been easy for Cornwell to leave Draco. Even just by the way Harry had first seen Cornwell look at Draco, he had wondered who could have looked at Draco in such a way—of course, the answer came down to be Draco's _father_. But, Harry had known, also, that Draco had chosen to take Lucius's guidance over Cornwell's, and he had wondered just how much Cornwell had meant to Draco. But, there in the picture, he could finally understand that Draco's love for Cornwell was just as great as Cornwell's for Draco. It was obvious.

"You weren't supposed to know about Cornwell."

"Apparently not," Draco quietly murmured back, both staring down at the picture for different and probably, somewhat, similar reasons. Draco remembered every memory he had ever had with Cornwell, and pictures were such a way of re-expressing the past and bringing forth, to Draco, what he had been trying to leave in the past. After Cornwell had left, Draco had been more than hurt. He had been furious. It was, Draco knew, deep down, Cornwell who was the factoring of Draco's decisions in the past two years. In his fifth year, Draco had been so racked with guilt over Cornwell's absence from his life, and that was the year that he had been asked to begin participating in Death Eater meetings and such, but, it was when he was fifteen that he realized he didn't want what Lucius's life. He had wanted his own. And, what he had heard Lucius say—that Draco had practically been born with hate for Voldemort, in his _blood_, was suddenly making sense, because Draco had always known that there was something about Voldemort of which he did not take to, from the first times he could remember, even though he had been raised to believe Voldemort was brilliant—a genius—a do-gooder. "I'm a horrible son."

Harry was not surprised by Draco's sudden guilt, "No, you're not," he quietly assured, placing the picture-frame onto the coffee table sitting in front of them. As he did so, Draco leaned over his knees, too, and dropped his face into his arms. The only response that Harry got was the running of Draco's hand through his platinum hair, in a tersely delicate manner, as if he were trying not to pull it out as he did so. "Had Lucius not cared about how good of a son you were, he wouldn't have cared that you didn't want to be what he was. If he thought you were a horrible son, he wouldn't have defied Voldemort, and you shouldn't be feeling guilty about that. That has nothing to do with you—that has to do with him being a good father to you, Draco, and realizing that your need to be yourself was greater than that of whose blood and upbringing you had."

"I know that, and I went and scolded him, wrote him off as nothing more than a brainwashed puppet!"

Harry watched, helplessly, "Lucius wouldn't want you to feel this way—he obviously never meant for you to find out the way you did." The way Lucius had looked at Draco screamed of guilt rather than anger, but Harry did not want to bring that up, not when Draco was feeling terrible, as well. But, his words didn't seem to do anything other than make Draco sigh with frustration at himself and clutch the back of his own neck. "At least he's safe, Malfoy. Voldemort can't get to him, even if he wanted to, and by the way it sounded, Voldemort would rather cut off his own wrists than kill Lucius for what he did. He did it to protect you, and Voldemort seemed to find nothing wrong in that, even if Lucius having done so went _directly_ against what Voldemort has been trying to accomplish for, apparently, the last twenty _years_."

"Did you see the way he touched Lucius's head?"

Harry snorted with laughter, but then he tried to suppress it.

That was, at least, until Draco lifted his head from his arms and started to laugh in the same sort of way, "He almost looked like he was going to cry," he chuckled, though hesitantly, feeling guilty about finding something so amusing when the actual situation was not funny at all. But, when he laughed, Harry laughed. And, when Harry laughed harder over his words, Draco laughed harder and turned his attention back to the picture on the coffee table, as his laughter began to fade away. "He wants us—you—as you, Judas, and me, and he wanted you as Harry. I just... we need to know what—no, who—we need to know who Cornwell is."

"He's your father."

Draco choked on a small breath of air, taken in a startled amount of honesty. He cleared his throat, "Obviously."

"He's your father, and he's protecting you," Harry extended who they knew Cornwell as. He pushed himself up onto his feet, slowly, taking his time. He was very tired, and he still had a pretty decent headache. All of that, however, just had sort of been put on the back-burner since he had awoken. Draco was his first priority, at that moment. Draco was his first priority, anymore, _period_, even above what he was there to do, because what he had to do could not be done without Draco, and with the new information about how Cornwell had planned for Harry to be Judas, for Harry and Draco to meet, again, under different circumstances, it was clear that Draco was essential in what was going on. It wasn't just Harry. Sure, Harry had to be the one to bring Voldemort down, but Draco was a huge part of the equation.

"He's not in history books. He's not in rumors. Trivial, but he's not even on Chocolate Frogs. Who he is, is secret. It's been made that way for a reason." Harry continued, just talking it out, as he walked toward Draco's fireplace, with interest, examining the trinkets that littered the mantle in an elegant, yet warmly comfortable way. Nothing in Draco's study was cold. Even though Harry didn't know what ninety-nine point eight of the things in the room meant, he could still sense, and he could still see, that everything seemed to suit Draco's persona. And, when he reached the fireplace, he looked over a few objects—a Slytherin crest, a Hufflepuff leaving-feast clothe napkin that appeared quite dated, a wooden carved eagle, and a few golden and silver trinkets, which Harry had not a clue of their importance, were scattered around amongst other, more large, obvious momentos. "The only person who is going to give us the truth _is_ Cornwell."

Draco suddenly sat up, and he awkwardly stared after Harry, "He knows you're... _you_."

Harry turned around, slowly, and slipped his hands into his pockets, his shoulders shrugged, "I guess what he saw wasn't complete lunacy, was it? We haven't killed each other." Draco, who had just stood up, and was running his hands back through his hair, as he walked around the back of the couch, away from Harry, looked back with confusion. "Lucius said he saw a picture with us in the Prophet, and thought we wouldn't kill each other."

"Well, he knew something we didn't," Draco quietly acknowledged. "He knew our blood, and his connection to your father." He was adjusted to the news of the night. It was hard to hear, but not, at all, hard to process. Nothing in Draco's life had ever been as easy as said. He had been dealing with levels and layers of lies for most of his life, starting from when he was a boy and having known that Cornwell was the father to him that Lucius was not. It had not been hard to realize who Cornwell was, to him not after having been raised by him, and then having had the epiphany of a mirror reflecting back a smaller version of Cornwell. "You may not have ever liked me, Potter, and I never gave you reason to. But, he knew that my hate for you was based on what could have been. It always was, because I always knew who my father was to your father, and you never knew, never cared, and could never have known. You heard Cornwell, Potter, back on Gemini Avenue; I never hated you. Quite the opposite."

"Well, I did hate you, you know," Harry threw back, mocking seriousness.

Draco smiled, lightly, with closed lips, "You never hated me, Potter. You just couldn't figure out my issue with you. It infuriated you, because you had done nothing to me. That would make your hate based on something liquid, rather than solid, so you couldn't have found a solid foundation for hating me. Initially, at least."

Harry walked around the couch, too, taking his time. Draco had a point, "Yeah. Yeah, you're... right."

Draco sat down on the side of his desk, leaning against it. He crossed his right ankle over his left, crossed his arms over his chest and rested his chin in his waiting right hand, contemplative of what they were talking about, "Voldemort wants me. He wants Judas. He wants power. He wants opposite of whatever Cornwell does—whatever anyone with a heart does," he began, speaking through the cracks in his fingers. His eyes shifted to Harry, and Harry was leaning opposite of him, against the back of a couch, listening as if he was hearing something in Draco's tone that Draco could hear, himself. He just didn't know what it was, yet. "If we take us from the equation, and take away Cornwell, the Death Eaters, your father, Dumbledore, Gryffindor—if we take away Lucius and we take away all of the loyalties Voldemort has ever had, he's still only after one thing."

Harry, frustrated with Draco's words, which were obviously known facts, only nodded his head along.

Draco dropped his palm from his chin and stared, simply, at Harry, "Anything?"

"Gee, Malfoy, if I had known the answer to any of this, I don't think we'd be sulking here, brooding about it."

Draco ignored him and stood up, straight, again, but this time with a determined sigh, while he grinned. He grinned because it was funny to see Harry so out-of-it and unfocused, "You were just talking about parallels to our fathers, were you not?" He circled around his desk, carefully, with squinted eyes. He heard a small murmur of agreement. as he turned his body and sat down at his desk chair. Across from him, Harry was already seated and leaning up over his desk. This time, he appeared to no-longer be rolling his eyes for Draco stating the obvious, and he knew, because of this, that he and Harry were on the same track, and both were probably going in rightfully separate ways in terms of ideas—of strategies—of plays, of spells—of some brilliant, simple answer that no one had _ever_ thought of, before.

They just simply were not going to find an easy answer. It was not going to happen, and they were already aware of that.

"You heard the way he was talking—_if only James and Cornwell could have—if only Potter and Draco had known_... what _about_ James and Cornwell? What about Potter and Draco? What is it, that we have or could do, that would _bring him to his knees_?"

"Even if that is a rhetorical question, Malfoy, I can't answer it. No one can. Only Cornwell—"

"No!" Draco interrupted Harry, leaning over the desk, as well, to meet Harry's eyes, very pointedly. "Harry, we _are_ our fathers."

"You've gone and lost it."

Draco watched as Harry pushed himself up and went to walk away from the desk. Obviously, it was late. Harry's head was hurting, and he was in no mood to be analyzing anything. He was sure that the after-effects of Harry's silent-room spell had nearly made it so that concentration was impossible for Harry. He was tired, and Draco understood. If it had been at any other point in the day, Draco knew the tables would have been reversed, and Harry would have been very interested in what Draco was talking about, but Harry did not seem to be in the mood to look into anything deeper than what the facts of that very moment were. This, however, was not acceptable to Draco. Therefore, he wasn't going to let Harry walk out when they had learned so much. And, even if Harry did not leave, he couldn't just sit there and not put thought or effort into all of the possibilities they had staring straight up at them.

Draco pushed himself up from his chair, feeling a burst of energy hijack his veins. To catch up with Harry, Draco took a shortcut, and he gave himself a strong support on the top of his couch before he pulled himself up, bounced his feet up, hopped onto the top of the heavy, stable couch, onto the cushion, and, then, at last, onto the floor, where he had the leverage to catch up and corner Harry with hands placed outward into the air between them.

Harry stopped, as Draco slid in front of him, coolly, with a silent plead to stay.

Draco held up his left hand, "Potter—you _just _said we had parallels to our fathers, did you not?"

Harry blinked, as if to try and wake himself up. Whatever the kick Malfoy was on, Harry had, apparently, missed it. Draco seemed onto something, now, rather than just spouting off something—anything—as they had been doing for the last couple of minutes. It didn't take much to get Harry's attention, after he realized this. Instead of pushing Draco away to collapse on the sofa, as he had first been determined to, he started to smile, awkwardly. Malfoy appeared to be endearingly cute when he was determined—with a furrowed, wrinkled forehead and platinum hair falling messily over his forehead, which he kept excessively tossing back with his head, "Yes?"

"Exactly," Draco pointed at him and then at the couch, strongly. "Sit down. Hear me out."

"For the record," Harry muttered, as he took a heavy seat on the center cushion of Draco's couch, obeying the command to do so, "I wasn't planning on leaving, I was just looking for a seat—you know, with the drum-line, pounding headache and all—like some bloody drummer has made it his personal duty to bash my head in." He quietly spoke this, even softer than he had before. His poor head. His poor, poor head.

Draco frowned, put-off of his objective by default. It was a moment he hadn't expected, and as lightly as he could manage, taken with honest concern, he took a step forward, his face scrunching up in an attempt to show sympathy, "It's getting worse?"

"Yes," Harry quietly answered, as to not infuriate the pain that had doubled in the last couple of minutes. "Much."

Draco tilted his head. When he did, it fell in front of his eyes, and he swore, mentally, over it. At last, he lifted his left hand and pressed his hair off of his forehead, holding it back, He dropped it, though, as he held his head straight. Miraculously, his hair didn't dare fall, again. But, he was too concerned with Harry's state to care about the settling of his hair—besides, it was just Potter, and Potter never cared about how his hair looked.

Carefully, Draco approached Harry, and then sat down on the coffee table. His knees touched Harry's, and Harry looked up from the floor, with his cheeks buried in his huge palms, "I don't mind if you'd rather this wait—for tomorrow, perhaps? I didn't have a plan. I was just going to babble about our fathers and trick you into doing so, as well—in hopes we'd pull something out of us—some... _answer_... that would help us. But, it can wait until tomorrow."

After a hesitant moment passed, of Harry's silence, Draco leaned forward a bit more, "It's not polite to pretend you haven't heard me, Potter." When he saw a glimmer of a smile on Harry's lips, he couldn't help but press his charm on a little more thickly, innocently. "I'm quite worried about your health, you know. You better take the opportunity to acknowledge it before I deny it ever happened."

Harry smiled into his hands, dropping his face down. He rubbed his hands over his face before straightening his position and dropping his arms and hands over his knees, crossed at mid-forearm. He cared a lot about Draco. He liked spending his time with Draco. He liked a lot of things about Draco Malfoy, and even with his splitting headache, he wasn't going to walk away from the room, not after what they had just learned, "Why, Malfoy,_ I am ever-so flattered that you care_, but, no, I do not need to give it a night." Harry chuckled, feeling something that resembled appreciation. At Draco's only reaction—a blank, expectant sign for clarity, he gave a childish laugh. "Just _talk_, Draco. I'm listening."

Draco didn't need any further encouragement. He stood up from the coffee table, and as he did so, he affectionately swiped his hand over the warm, flushed cheek he had noticed opposite of him. He patted Potter's cheek, as it to tell him that, while Draco hoped he felt better and soon, there were far more pressing matters at hand. And, as he began to walk around the coffee table, the very tips of his fingers slid down Harry's face—never completely leaving until they absolutely had to. "First, our fathers met not knowing they were wizards. That's opposite of us. We met in Diagon Alley, and they met in a muggle park."

Harry simply nodded, watching as Draco began to pace in front of the coffee table. Not realizing it until he had taken the chance to acknowledge his own movement, Harry's hand had cupped over his cheek, where Draco's hand had just affectionately, but, still, somehow, distantly, emotionally-coldly, touched him. Faces were intimate things. And, while his face was Judas Cliffdale's, he still felt as if Draco had touched his own cheek—because, for the first time, a touch did not feel foreign to a foreign face. Perhaps Judas and Draco had shared a similar experience when they were children.

"Second, after your father learned about who Cornwell was, he didn't tell Cornwell, now did he?"

Harry, this time, shook his head from side to side. Draco seemed to be thriving on the task at hand, suddenly.

"Do you suppose there was a reason why your father never told Cornwell?"

Harry's interest heightened, his attention finally came into focus, and his posture straightened a bit more, "That's a good point—keep on."

Draco nodded, "You seem to know about as little as your father's past as I do mine. Am I right?"

Harry blinked. He hated feeling so close to his father in some ways, and so clueless in others.

Draco didn't need much more of an answer. He moved on, "Both were powerful wizards, neither of whom do we even know why they were, or how they came to be that way. We'll put that at the end of our equation for the night. Ex times Ex, divided over Ex, equals the importance of our fathers—are you up for it?" He finally stopped pacing in front of the coffee table that separated he and Judas Potter—ha, Judas Potter. It quite summed up who Harry was to Draco. "We can put the music-note spell on you, if you'd rather not deal with the pain, and you can write out what you have to say. As for our first problem of the night, if you choose to go ahead with sleepless brilliance—though I can't guarantee anything will come out of it—we will take these two factors into consideration."

As Draco spoke, he wrote out, with the tip of his wand, in a glittering green color, in long, elegantly-formed cursive words, complete with very long, thin, oval curves and twirls, _JamesDraco, CornwellHarry_.

The statement stayed in the air, staring down at Harry and producing the silence of the room that followed.

Finally, Harry lifted his eyes to Draco. Why hadn't Draco said that, aloud? Slowly, Harry pressed forward, "How do you figure?"

"That depends on how you feel like spending your night."

Harry couldn't help but smile, as he rolled his eyes. He pulled his wand from his pajama pants pocket and lifted it.

_This had better be good._ After an affectionate pause, in which they both looked at the shimmering gold words, Harry added a cutely spiteful, traditional, angrily-written, italicized, _Malfoy!_

Snorting with laughter, Draco shrugged his shoulders up, burying one hand into his let pocket. But, he was delighted with Harry's answer, and felt like he was ready to have a go on the puzzle pieces which they had just been dealt, Draco gave an appreciative nod of his head. He quickly swished the tip of his wand through his writing, and the letters swirled before they disappeared, completely. He turned and pointed his wand at the door, with a deliberately hesitant, deep voice, and spoke, "_Ephorasolufia!_"

The jet of light sprung out of his wand, in the same way it had Harry's, and it flew out through the room. Perhaps he hadn't noticed in the church, but the spell did a very quick, nearly bubble-like scan of the room, almost like it was graphing each and every single centimeter and nook of the place, before the orange-toned glow of color disappeared and everything returned to the normalcy that he and Harry had been facing.

When Draco turned back to Harry, Harry was just staring at him with an expression that bordered on awe.

Draco did not hesitate. He walked away from his track in front of the coffee table, and he circled it. He sat down next to Harry, "Those who live together must suffer together. You said we're a one-meal deal. If you're going to suffer for this, I'm going to suffer for it." He was speaking of the after effects of the spell he had just cast over the room. It wasn't so bad, especially because they had two ways of improving the headache the next day. If anything, putting a music-note spell on himself, or having Harry do it, might have been the smartest move, anyhow, just in case he saw Cornwell and decided to have a go at him, verbally, which Draco wondered would come out as classical tones or war-like barks. His best-bet was on the shrill, hard, unfriendly chords which his words would relate to the most.

"We're going to suffer together, huh?" Harry asked, with a light chuckle. "To be honest, I'd rather suffer with you than alone."

Draco looked at him, silently. After a paused moment, he gave one small nod of his head. He didn't need to say anything more, he was sure. He wasn't going to admit to Harry that it felt good that they were working as a team, that they were working together, and that Harry didn't want to be alone in what he was doing. It felt good to know that neither of them were going to have to suffer alone, for anything, that summer, even when things were seeming so dark on the brightest and gloomiest days they had ever seen, "Are you ready to hear this?"

Harry rested back into his cushion and motioned Draco up, with his hand, "Go on, Malfoy. Show me your brilliance."

Draco pushed himself up, but not without a wry smirk at Harry, "I'm going to ignore the responses I have to that."

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes, "That's noble of you, ignoring your instincts for the good of the cause—wow."

"Oh, fuck you—and, yes, I am doing something for the good of the cause. Don't you forget that, Potter."

"_Me_? Forget _you _doing something for _me_? I could _never_!"

By the time Draco stood in front of the coffee table, again, he was laughing, "Would you cut it out, and let me be serious?"

Harry pulled his left leg up on the couch and rested his left heel on the cushion, so his knee was bent. He wrapped his arms around it, at ease, to get more comfortable, all the while smiling, shamelessly, at Draco. Sometimes it was fun to just forget what they had to do and just pretend that the only thing they had to do was converse with each other about things that didn't matter. Nothing mattered more than that, anyway, at the end of the day. Regardless of what happened with Voldemort, Harry already knew that what he had with Draco, and what was going to come out of what he had with Draco, over the next months, would far outweigh the pointlessness of not being civil toward each other. He was free to be a person he had always been, deep down, but his standing had never allowed him to be—he was a weapon, he was a brain, he was an answer and a solution—that's who he was to everyone else. To Draco, and of Draco to him, he was just a well-understood kid, "Okay, be serious."

Draco smirked, his left eyebrow hooked up, strongly, "Was that a demand, Potter? No one ever demands a Malfoy."

'Sorry, I'm pretending that your father was my father's bitch, and he barked Cornwell around, so you have no case."

"Idiot," Draco assured Harry of what his reasoning made him be, with a hard laugh, his hands falling from his sides. He shook his head from side to side, while Harry laughed and pulled his other foot up onto the couch, so his socked feet were sticking out just over the edge. And, while Harry was busy laughing and looking at the coffee table, Draco took in the wizard opposite of him, with very friendly, caring eyes. God, damnit, Potter was brilliant—"In equation one, we'll call you Cornwell and we'll call me James, based solely on the fact that James knew of who Cornwell was, like I knew who you were. I grew up with magic, as did James. You didn't, like Cornwell. You were kept away from it—albeit, for very different reasons—just like he was. So, I'm James, and you're Cornwell, and we've been best friends since we were, what, seven? I find out that you're magic, and I never tell you. Now, why wouldn't I tell you?"

Harry didn't hesitate, "It wasn't your business or obligation to tell me—"

"But, are we sure about that? Supposedly, James was a power source all his own. Did he know about Cornwell?"

Harry licked his bottom lip and leaned forward, with squinted eyes, over his knees, "He could have..."

"We'll assume that he did. We'll assume that he spent five years, at least, knowing about Cornwell. And, we know that James stayed with Cornwell a lot during those years, up until he was sixteen. Even when his parents took Sirius in—like a son—James still never told him about Cornwell until Sirius actually questioned him about it. But, why? Why would James keep his friendship with Cornwell away from Sirius? Away from everyone?"

"Perhaps there was no motive, Malfoy. I never knew my father, but I'm positive that he wasn't _that_ sort of way."

"No, I don't mean he had a motive, Potter. I mean, maybe there was something he knew about Cornwell—this issue of Cornwell's power—that he felt. No one could have possibly known, because it appears that no one knows, now, what Cornwell was, except for, we assume, a handful of people—people who are already powerful," Draco continued, standing, immobile, while Harry stared at him, listening and nodding along with thoughtful glances away for a second or two at a time.

"Plus, Cornwell only attended Hogwarts for his sixth and seventh years. He was twenty-four when he disappeared from wizard life, so that leaves an eight year span of which he was in magic. Somewhere in that eight years that he knew and embraced magic, he became powerful—but, can someone so young make himself _that_ powerful in eight years? Can someone, whose life hadn't been planned out, forever, turn into something so powerful? Adding in, of course, that Cornwell is not only one of the nicest-possible human beings, ever, but very lovely and well-mannered, and while he's not a saint, I am positive that he's not the type who could have manipulated and stepped on people to get power."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, quickly. "Factor one—we'll assume that Cornwell was born powerful."

"Excellent," Draco decided, of what he had been getting at. Finally, he moved, with his right hand covering his chin and his left hand squeezing his side. He walked a couple of paces to his right, and then back the could of paces to his left. He started to do this, again, but then stopped himself and turned back to Harry, with his right hand leaving his face to motion about in the air. "Where does that kind of power come from when you're born?"

Harry went to respond with one thing, but only produced another, "A prophecy, like mine."

"A prophecy."

"We're back to square one, aren't we?" Harry asked, with a frustrated, cynical laugh.

Draco groaned, slightly leaning forward with closed eyes, "I don't think we ever even _left _square one to begin with, Potter."

"All right, then let's put aside the prophecy idea. Even if it is a prophecy, there is no way we could know what it was, unless, of course, we broke into the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry or if we, again, just ask Cornwell, neither of which we can apparently do. That seems to leave only one option open—we'll have to focus on James—I mean, my father—because, if he was as powerful as they say, and he could sense that in Cornwell, and, _say_, wanted to _protect_ Cornwell, there has to be a reason. There has to be record—there has to be _something_, _somewhere_, because they couldn't have erased Cornwell from my father's entire life, like they did mine. If they were friends until the end, they must have had momentos—memories—journals? Pictures, even! In fact, other people had had to see them—what about your mother? Even though she didn't know either of them in school, I'm sure she knew OF them—"

"Gringotts," Draco interrupted, suddenly, looking up from the floor. But, when he saw Harry, he shook his head back and forth, fervently, and moved on, at first. "You're right, my mother, she probably knows more about them than we think! I mean, damn, she and Cornwell were..." His voice faded, and even in that very moment, a silence prevailed, and it succeeded in making Draco feel completely dead.

Harry bit into his bottom lip, awkwardly, and cleared his throat, "We'll ask her, tomorrow—what about Gringotts?"

"Nice segue, Potter. Could it have been any more obvious?"

Harry did chuckle, softly, as Draco collapsed back down onto the couch next to him, ungracefully. His demeanor had changed. He no longer seemed excited. It was like a big thunder-cloud had just settled above him and had ruined the plans for the rest of his entire life. He even lifted his foot from the floor, and for the second time that night, he succeeded in kicking the heavy wooden coffee table so hard that it slid about another foot away from them on the wooden floor. Without hesitating, Harry unwrapped his left arm from around his knee and threw it over in front of Draco's chest, looking down his shoulder at him, "You know, technically, you're a full-fledged Black. Not only are you Cornwell's son—whatever power that obviously has given you by birthright—but you're a Black. Powerful sons of bitches, or so I have heard."

Draco glowered at Harry, sunken down onto the couch and slouched, "I'm inbred, Potter!"

Harry laughed.

Draco stared at him, at first. But, Harry didn't seem ashamed of his laughter. He pulled his arm back and covered his mouth, instead, as if he were trying to make his laughter spiral to a faded close. It didn't really work, because he seemed to find something truly funny, which infuriated Draco. Draco easily took offense to things when discussing his parents, and Potter knew that, too! Before he could restrain himself, and nearly foaming at the mouth with obscenities, Draco's right hand came up and he shoved it against Harry's head, which succeeded in pushing Harry over, because Harry went without an argument, and he laughed even harder, "WHAT THE FUCK IS SO FUNNY?"

Harry moaned with laughter, his arms still wrapped around his knees, his feet to Malfoy, ""I'm inbred, Potter!""

Draco frowned as Potter started coughing his laughs, hard, as if he did not dare stop himself, "How is that the least bit funny?"

Harry pushed himself up on his right elbow and turned his head toward Draco. He stayed silent for a moment, but found it hard to keep from laughing moments afterward. He knew Draco didn't find it, at all, funny, but the situation had really amused Harry. Instead of sitting himself back to his position, he pushed himself up onto his butt and faced Draco. His legs folded in to a pretzel-like shape, and he finally felt himself beginning to come down off of his laughing high, "Malfoy, you're not inbred, okay? They were COUSINS! Cousins who hadn't ever known about each other by name! It wasn't their damn fault, and it's not your fault—aristocratic society is so fucked up, I wouldn't be surprised if they were even related at all. Wasn't there a lot of cheating that went on at that time? Anyway—stop saying it like you should be ashamed. Do you KNOW the sick mating rituals of aristocrats—hell, you SHOULD know. Okay, just... you could have it loads worse. Be thankful that you're normal enough to know that it's dysfunctional."

"I was only expressing my thoughts, Potter. I suppose next time I should just—"

"Would you knock it off?" Harry cut him off, softly, with a quiet, harmless laugh. Draco had been going to get up, but Harry reached his left arm out, again, to stop him. He lowered his arm, when Draco's threat to get up was ceased, and leaned over his own lap. "Look at me, Malfoy."

Draco glanced at him, but then quickly looked away, smirking with conviction, "You're not going to tell me you care about me, again, are you?"

"Yes," Harry snickered, shamelessly. "I do, Malfoy." It was innocent and friendly. "Stop beating yourself up about your parents, okay?"

Draco scoffed with stubborn disbelief. Never minding the fact that Potter was laughing at him and giving him advice on how to not take himself so seriously, Draco found the moment to be oddly endearing. He wasn't at all taken aback. He felt a corruption of friendly curiosity take over his body, "I'll stop just because you told me to, _oh-so-powerful_ Potter."

"Malfoy, do you like your life?" There was no answer. "Scratch that—I _know_ you like your life. Be thankful for what you've got."

"I am thankful," Draco spitefully admitted, under his breath. It hissed at Harry like a scared snake. "Now, back off!"

Harry found himself trying not to laugh, again, "What—whoa—am _I_ making _you_ uncomfortable?"

"I wouldn't flatter yourself, Potter. I just don't like discussing my parents with anyone—"

"You want to discuss it, Malfoy, because you just _did_," Harry interrupted him, with a serious laugh. There was nothing Draco had to be ashamed of talking about, not to Harry. He had never had the sort of friendship he had with Draco. He did love Ron, in a way no one could ever know. Ron was like his brother, his comic relief, his sanity in times of the insane. But, Draco was much different than that. Regardless of how little time they had spent together, in the ultimate scheme of their last weeks together, there was an undoubtedly strong bond that was already solidified. He didn't mind when Draco randomly sputtered things out. He just didn't like it when Draco took them back, as if he felt he shouldn't have shared his thoughts, at all. That was the last thing Harry wanted. He was amazed that, up until that point, neither had cracked under pressure. He cared about the state of Malfoy's mind as much as he did his own. "Now, look at me."

Draco forced a very straight-forward face and looked Harry straight on, blandly.

Harry grabbed Draco's warm chin, pointedly, before Draco could tear his eyes away, "I said _look at me_, Malfoy."

Draco grumbled something, growling and sputtering, tiffing stubbornly and hesitantly. _Fine_! He locked eyes, again, with those waiting for his. Damnit, Potter! All of his stupid affection! Who was so affectionate, anyway? Surely no boys that Draco had ever been around. He had had friendships, of course, with many other boys in his life, but none like he had with Harry, who, apparently, did not like hearing others talk down on themselves. Who would have figured Potter to have changed so severely? Not that Draco had ever known him, however. He had always figured Harry to be the non-emotional type, always centered on keeping his real emotions and such, inside, while only thinking and caring about bringing Voldemort to his knees. Who did Potter think he was, anyway, to be so... so... so personal with Draco! Damnit, and why did Draco never want him to stop being that way? He growled, "There, I'm looking. Are you happy, now?"

Damn those stupid big, brown eyes!

Harry said nothing, just half-smiled.

Draco glared at him, not backing away from the challenging eye-contact, "Well, Potter,_ are you happy_?"

Harry purposely lowered his voice and playfully jested with suggestion ringing in his throat, "I'm happy."

Draco rolled his eyes up, once, but then caught Harry's again, with a genuine, shy grin, "Now, what is it you want to say to me?"

"I bet your eyes have made half of Hogwarts forget what they wanted to say."

Draco felt pale, which was saying a lot, because he was well aware of the state of his skin, already.

Harry blinked, after a very long moment, and then snorted laughter down against his own left shoulder, pulling his eyes away. Good God, that had come out horribly wrong! The expression on Draco's face had made his own embarrassment well-worth the mistake and play on words that had come floating out of his mouth. Truth was, Draco had incredible eyes. He was an incredible-looking person, and to disagree was just not appropriate. To men and women, alike, Draco was appealing. He was a pretty boy, and to deny a pretty boy as what he was did not seem, at all, to ever make sense. He had heard tones of girls at Hogwarts gushing over Malfoy—and, when Gryffindor boys talked about him, they threw in the word "pretty boy" as if it were a horrible curse on level with the unforgivables. But, it wasn't a horrible thing—just a pretty thing. "That was not a line!"

Draco watched him, intrigued, having felt the blood return to his face, but more abundantly, "It _sounded_ like a line."

"It right wasn't, Malfoy!" Harry assured, still laughing embarrassed laughter at himself. "You just have nice eyes, is all. And, I was going to tell you to stop feeling so bad about it. I know that me telling you to do so isn't going to change anything, but I get it. If you want to talk about it, I don't mind. I don't mind listening to what you have to say, Malfoy. I'm just not going to sit here and let you sulk over something you had no control over and can't change. They both love you. They're both alive. On top of that, you're Draco fucking Malfoy and have everything that goes along with that. Really, what _more_ could you want?"

"A white pony with golden hair, glittery green horse-shoes, and the Slytherin crest branded onto his neck, _proudly_."

Harry grinned, "Um, good luck with that,"

Draco grinned back, not breaking the friendly eye-contact, "Like you never wanted a pony when you were four!"

"I just wanted food to get me by when I was four."

Draco's eyebrows furrowed, awkwardly, "What?"

Harry glanced away from him, "Don't act like you haven't heard the stories after all of the Prophet and Quibbler articles on me, Malfoy, because you used to flash them around in my face. I had—have—a horrible muggle family who doesn't want me?" He looked back at Draco, who was staring at him as if he were a mixture of mad and delusional, which was saying a lot on its own, because Malfoy's expression seeped with that of a deranged wizard-boy who had just been told his magic had been taken away from him. Confused and alarmed, Harry's eyebrows rose up. "You know, sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs?"

Draco blinked, once.

Harry leaned forward a bit, his eyebrows now furrowed in frustration. How could Malfoy seem so surprised?

Draco pulled his eyes from Harry's and concentrated on the pictures sitting on his off-centered, crooked coffee table, a good foot and a half away from where it usually was. He didn't really know what to do with himself. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to answer. He just didn't know. He had heard all of the "rumors" about where Harry Potter had come from, but they had never truly been confirmed. It was one of those things, early on, that peeved Draco off about Harry Potter—who had been made to seem like some poor, innocent little orphan boy, and not the powerful, important, magically-raised boy Draco had been taught to think of Harry as while he was growing up. He was the son of Lucius Malfoy, and Lucius had played on Draco's innocence about Harry since Draco could even remember. But, after awhile, he hadn't known what to believe.

As he sat there, silently, he just couldn't fathom how far away he felt from Harry. He had been _horrible_ to Harry, because he had figured that no one had ever been horrible to Harry, as if he had grown up being worshipped, and if not worshipped, at least loved and cared for. But, those rumors now appeared to be true, and Draco wasn't sure what to make of himself, in the past, because of it. He had been a little monster to Harry. Albeit, that was before Draco had grown a set for himself and understood that everything his father told him hadn't always been true—of course, Cornwell had never been around when Lucius had spoken poorly of Harry and James—the Potters, in general—and no fucking wonder, now! Cornwell probably would have hexed Lucius into the year twenty-ten!

Harry felt troubled, and that was all he could describe it as, inside. Malfoy appeared to be so hurt, so damaged. Had Harry said something that he hadn't been aware of? What could have offended Draco so much that his usually-flawless, set angry face was no longer angry, but rather livid—with a lot of wrinkles, and a hard, clenched jaw. Carefully, he cleared his throat. "Malfoy?"

Draco, at last, blinked his eyes away. They fell from the picture of himself and Cornwell, that he and Harry had been examining earlier in the night, and they flew back to the lean, hesitantly moving figure beside his, bravely. Before he could stop himself, he set his posture straight, wrinkled his entire face with complete and utter disgust, lifted his hands into the air in front of him, as if to say "what the fuck!" and spat out, "_They made you sleep in a cupboard_!"

"What.. yeah?" Harry didn't know how to respond. He awkwardly eyed Draco, feeling more vulnerable than ever. "It had a bed, though." Yes, sleeping under the stairs was horrible, but he had at least had a bed. With a groan, Harry couldn't help but feel ashamed of himself. It came off like he was trying to defend the Dursley's, but he was actually only trying to make himself seem like less of the pitiful orphan-like boy everyone pegged him as, though he was pretty much exactly that.

"_Are you fucking with me, Potter?_"

Harry's eyes blew wide, and he laughed, startled and stunned, "No!" He defended himself, monstrously defensive of his childhood life and how Draco seemed to be thinking it was all a lie. Hardly! Harry WISHED it had been a lie! He wished he would have been able to grow up with a family in Malfoy's standings, but he hadn't had that luck. And, though he stared at Malfoy, and Malfoy stared back at him, his laughter started to lighten. "I hardly grew up like you, Malfoy. I was pretty sure everyone knew that—the articles and—well, I guess not everyone knew it." He itched at his chest, over his heart, unintentionally. "Clearly not."

"Oh, shut your mouth," Draco bit at him, as he pushed himself up. He walked away from the couch and Harry.

Harry didn't know what to do. Frustrated and confused, he gave a heavily deep sigh. He didn't know what was wrong with Malfoy, to have turned so shove-off-ish over something that didn't even concern him. Indeed, it did not concern him at all. He licked at his bottom lip and went to say something. He stopped himself and just decided to give Draco the go-ahead, because if Draco wanted to say something, Harry knew it would come. He didn't want to piss Malfoy off—as it seemed quite easy to do, at the moment.

Mentally, he was flabbergasted and utterly lost.

Draco's left hand placed on the mantle above his fireplace, and he leaned his weight against it, his head tilted down to where his eyes could easily stare at the floor. He was part of that floor. He had been so low to Harry. Of course, when he was younger, he had been... well, just _that_—young. He had been young, stupid and brainwashed. And, Harry seemed to believe that it was stupid to look in the past, because nothing could be changed. But, that didn't take away the guilt Draco felt, and the disgust he felt, "Bloody muggles, I have three-fourths of a Malfoy mind to go cover their faces with pillows."

"Just forget it, Malfoy. They weren't pleasant people, but I hardly want them dead."

"You always say the same thing," Draco returned, after a very long silence settled had between them. His voice was low, gilled with groveling angst. He slowly looked over his shoulder and toward Harry. He opened up his body, so he was actually facing the seated wizard, but he was still leaning against the mantle with his arm and hand. When he saw the anxiety on the face staring at him, as if the face were searching for some huge clue, Draco dropped his hand from the mantle. "If you go through your life forgetting everything that has upset you—I mean, they made you sleep in a bloody cupboard, Potter! You should WANT them to suffer—"

"Don't patronize me as being a_ fucking saint_! I didn't say I liked them—or even cared for them—I said I didn't want them dead, and there's nothing wrong with that! I don't want them to suffer, because I don't want ANYONE to suffer anymore than they necessarily have to!" He exclaimed, raising his voice. As he did so, the pounding in his head became heavier. He struggled with himself, for a moment, as he walked around the coffee table, tightly squeezing the back of his neck and shrugging his shoulders up to match the tenseness he felt inside.

"I slept in a cupboard—okay, so it was horrible, and they treated me like a dog that they were forced to take in—because that's what I am! That's what I always was! But, just being bitter about it isn't going to do anything about it! It made me who I am—it made me appreciative of the things I never had. It made me LEARN how to treat people. You know, that whole bit about treating people how you would want to be treated? Putting yourself in someone else's shoes? Well, I was the only PAIR of damn shoes in that house, and no one ever wanted to see how it was to spend an hour in them, much-less gave a damn to even PRETEND to take my feelings into consideration, so don't go getting angry over something like them shoving me into a cupboard—at least I bloody-well had a bed and food, and sure, I was a scrawny little thing—shy, with issues and more than a bit miserable—but, I'd like to think that all changed when I got to Hogwarts, and I'm NOT the same kid who was sleeping in the cupboard, anymore, and I don't let it just DEFINE me! They hated me, so! I hate them, too! And, sometimes I wish I'd never have to see them, again, and, hopefully, because I'll be seventeen next week, I'll be legally able to hold myself without their housing, and, hopefully, by the end of this fucking year or sooner, I won't HAVE to worry about Voldemort coming to attack me, so I wouldn't need to go back there, anyway! So, Malfoy, if you WANT to do anything for me, help me not to ever have to go back to those people."

Draco had followed Harry from the couch to the door, silent the whole time. He felt like a little boy after a scolding.

Harry opened the door and turned around to him, "I'm going to sleep. We'll discuss this tomorrow, _because God fucking knows_ that one damn night of talking about the father I never knew is HARDLY going to bring about the answers we're missing."

Draco hugged the door-frame, lightly, while Harry walked down the hallway, "Wait."

Harry turned around, simply.

Draco stood tall, "Look at me."

With no hesitation, a pair of brightly impassioned eyes found his own. The way Harry had reacted to his own past was frightening. He seemed to so easily put the past behind him. However, it was clear that the emotions his past brought about were a completely different story. Harry had managed to separate his past with what he had learned from his past, and when he spoke of the actual events, something seemed very frightening and heart-breaking about him. And, it was even harder for Draco watch, because he wasn't even watching Potter, physically. He was watching Judas Cliffdale, and it took away the certain amount of closeness that Draco knew he felt toward Harry.

Draco's eyes hooded, and he just gave a small shake of his head, "You say you care for me—you say you care _about_ me." Harry gave one slight nod. "Then, you'll understand the concept that I might care for you as much as you care for me? You know I care about you—enemies, friends, whatever we are—_I_ care about _you_." Harry did nothing. He said nothing. He appeared to know, feel or think nothing, either. He just stood there, his eyes glazed over and emotionless, but this was something Draco was sure was a defense mechanism of Harry's. "Potter, even if you've forgotten it and put it behind you, can't you see that I'm appalled with what they did to you? You were a little boy, like Dickie—innocent, pure, sweet, quiet, a doll in all ways possible, I'm sure—and they_ made you sleep in a cupboard_. And, I swear to God, and I swear right now, on our relationship, on my dreams—on my fucking life, no matter how hard-core and overly-dramatic it sounds—that if I ever run into one of your family members and they so much as tick me off with a breath too loud for my mood, I'll kill. You don't make little boys sleep in cupboards. You don't make MY Harry Potter sleep in a cupboard."

Harry could only manage to shake his head, once. His foot shuffled on the floor, too. He didn't know how Draco did it. He didn't know how Draco pulled out of Harry what no one ever had. He didn't know what it was that made him blurt things out to Draco, things he didn't ever admit to feeling around anyone else. He hadn't gone into that summer having any idea that what he would have had with Draco would have been more comforting and friendship-inducing than anything in his life had ever offered him. He knew exactly why they were good together—it was because they were, simply, two different boys to each other than they were to the rest of the world.

Keep friends close and enemies closer, wasn't that the saying? His enemy was no longer his enemy. Draco was Harry's only confidant, and Harry knew that, had there been fifteen other brilliant people who he could have confided in, none of them would have compared to Draco, because he knew what they were in a way that he couldn't put in words, put in thought or even put forth into an ideal standard for any sort of relationship.

And, even when he got mad at himself for being someone he loved to be, around Draco, and went to get back into the spirit of the lonely, brooding, world-shouldered boy he had always been—still, in many ways, a little boy in a cupboard in his loneliness—Draco managed to pull him right back in and make him realize he was being a total moron for feeling as if he had to go back and keep his emotions tightly bottled up.

Simply, Draco cared.

They cared about each other.

And, to each other, they were what no one had ever been to them. They had grown up not knowing each other, but rather despising each other, and there was no better solution for curing that sharpness of enemies than learning about each other. Their opportunity to learn about each other was far greater than it might have been with anyone else, in their lives, because they WERE, indeed, who they were—in society, in school and to each other.

They were open to be who they wanted to be, and under the pressure that they faced, it was probably a brilliant idea to have put them together. They would change each other—and, they both knew it, because they both knew it had been happening in the short time they had been in each other's lives as more than casual, child-hood dislike that had made them feud and battle with each other's presence from the very moment they had met.

A smirk hit the very-most corner of Draco's mouth, "You are my Harry Potter, aren't you? No one else knows you as I do."

Harry only backed away from Draco, with light, stead-fast steps on his heels, eyes twinkling in full-fledged diamond-like reflections. He felt his cheeks scrunch up, but he never let himself laugh, "Goodnight, Malfoy."

Draco watched him turn to leave the hallway, and he smiled, gently, "Goodnight, Potter."

When Harry stood in the center of the doorway, he briefly turned back to stare, curiously, at Draco, "_Wait_."

Draco stepped out of the doorway.

"I think you should ask Cornwell."

"You think the right way." He smiled, easily, as Harry yawned into his arm. "Sleep tight." _What! Oh, Draco._

"Of course, but only if I'm dreaming of you." He smiled, cheekily.

"I'd be careful what you wish for. Our dreams are hardly our own, anymore, are they?"

Harry drew himself up completely straight, with impeccable posture, "Hmm, how little you know about me." He pointed to his mind, as if to suggest there was something in it that could keep out unwanted dreams. Draco seemed to know exactly what he meant, however. He had put it together quickly. He didn't ask anything else, just curiously looked over Harry's forehead, even though there was nothing that he would have been able to see that was out of the ordinary. Harry went to turn away, again, but he added a quick and stuffy, "Cheerio, mate."

Draco laughed, "Yeah, _Cheerio_, Potter." When Harry went to turn away, Draco muttered. "Twit."

"I heard that!" Harry exclaimed, with a huge grin, reappearing. Truth be told, he had been expecting it.

Draco smiled, "That's because I wanted you to. See, Potter, now we separate and bid each other farewell—_farewell, my friend, and do have a lovely slumber_—and, it just so happens to work out that I'm in the lead and have the upper hand." He smirked. "Goodnight." He closed his study door before Harry could say anything, or everything, to make their conversation drone on for the rest of the night. But, Draco knew Harry's head was hurting, so he withdrew his placement in the conversation. Besides, Harry hadn't had time to take his thrown, once again, as the one to jumble up Draco's night. There was already enough jumbling them _both_ up.

Harry turned away from Draco's closed study door and walked out through the hallway, again. He closed the door behind him and then began taking careful steps down the hall. There was a strange feeling that he had, now, when he walked. It was like he was afraid that someone were following him, hearing his every thought, seeing his every move. He felt like he was under a microscope, but he knew that he wasn't. The situation didn't make things easy or light-hearted. Things were dark. Times were dark. His mission... _mission_—like some bloody word could describe what he had to do!--was not easy. The pressure had been building up on his shoulders for weeks, and it was beginning to get to the point where he could feel the extra weight.

Well, it might have been the few boxes of cheese-snack-crackers he had wolfed down, too... _what the!_ "Flora!"

As Harry turned the corner into the grand entry room, he halted to a stop. Flora was standing with a tray of drinks, her forehead wrinkled. She immediately gave a small hop and looked relieved that he had shown up. She had been kicking at the air, apparently, and seemed very distraught.

"Sir, I can't get past this spot, sir!"

Harry looked at where she was kicking and realized that her foot hit an invisible boundary. For a moment, he was perplexed, but then bit into his bottom lip. Draco hadn't retracted the spell, and if he forgot, the effects of using it for too long when unaware were dangerous—loss of hearing, subjects of artwork on walls would lose their voices and ability to hear, etc.. He stepped forward, "Oh, I think Draco has his invisible wall up—you know all about that." Obviously not, as it was a total fib. "If it'd be all right, I'd take the tray and take him the drinks."

Flora shook her head, furiously, "No, sir, I can't be asking you to do such a thing, sir. It is the work of a house-elf, sir!"

"Please, Flora, I wouldn't tell," he urged, his voice raising into a cuter, more charming tone. She eyed him, suspiciously, not so adament about saying no. Harry could see there was almost a, "What's in it for me?" sort of expression taking over her eyes, which should have, because he had been wearing it on his own face. Flora was a perfect house-elf for Draco, Harry decided. He leaned down, closer, lifting his left eyebrow. "Go into the kitchens and say you're snagging some fudge for me. You deserve some fudge—and, I'd ice those toes, too. Are you all right?" He looked down at her foot, worriedly.

Flora's eyes widened, as Harry squatted down to be even with her, his eyes pensive, "I'm fine, sir!"

"Well, I simply don't believe you are fine, and I ORDER you to go steal a block of fudge and eat it while you lounge about for the rest of the day in attempt to better your foot, as I'm sure it'll be quite sore, and who wants to see you limping about? Certainly not me—and, certainly not Draco." He stood up, tall, again, mocking stern seriousness. "Flora, did you hear me? Direct order—you-kitchens-fudge-day off." Still, she wavered. Harry squinted. "Fine. If you refuse, I'll make you give Draco a sponge-bath."

Flora's entire face brightened up with horrified amusement, but she said nothing.

Harry winked at her, taking the tray from her hands, without the slightest resistance, without another word. He turned himself back around, with the shiny, reflective, flawless silver tray in his hands. He took quick strides, keeping his eyes down, rather than up, concentrating on the two cups of coffee and the one bottle of Butterbeer. As he entered the hallway that contained the door to Draco's study, his quick hurry to get there was slowed. There was music playing—nothing lyrical. It was the sound of a lone piano, coming straight from Draco's study. It was far too perfected and flawless to have been being played by Draco, and Harry did remember that Draco had listened to classical music, once before, when Harry had intruded on him. But, the music coming from the room wasn't necessarily classical. It was just instrumental.

But, as Harry stood in front of the closed study door, a small erroneous key was stricken, and a small curse uttered.

Harry held the tray on his left arm and carefully, quietly, took his time in turning the doorknob with his right hand. Once he got it cracked, it swung open. Harry jumped back, but nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Everything on the tray had miraculously not jumped or jingled, and the door had not creaked. There, sitting at a piano, was, indeed, Draco Malfoy. It was the piano in the left corner of the room that Harry hadn't figured had ever been given much use. He must have been wrong.

Draco's back was turned to him, his posture was relaxed, and he kept taking small stops on the keys below him.

Harry realized that the pauses were part of whatever he was playing—playing! Malfoy played piano. Surprising, as Draco had not mentioned it during previous musical conversations at random meals. It should have dawned on Harry that, being a Malfoy, Draco was schooled on the arts. Draco had told him so, but Harry just hadn't figured Draco to know how to play an instrument, just know about them. Stupid, really, as he thought back on it.

And, at last, words in the silent room were uttered, "I can see your reflection in the window."

Harry jumped a bit, finally brought out of his slight trance on the sound of the keys in the room, "Drinks," he weakly offered out, holding the tray out with both hands, again. This time he was looking at Draco, in the distance, through one of the windows, and he saw, very clearly, both of their reflections. Draco was looking back at him. But, the face turned away, and Harry was met with a direct glance, instead. He set down the tray on a table behind one of the couches closest to him. He stood up straight and slid his hands down his stomach and into his pockets—but, he didn't have pockets in his pajama pants, so he quickly placed his hands on his sides, giving a shy step toward Draco. "You play piano."

Draco didn't say anything, just turned his attention back down to his keys and away from Harry.

Harry walked until he was standing behind Draco, looking down over his right shoulder. Draco played a short little snippet of something catchy. It didn't last very long—about three seconds. But, those three seconds of music thrilled Harry. Draco's fingers moved about the keys, up and down the scale, like unrelenting lightening. Harry had never seen someone actually play the piano—well, not live. Once, on Christmas, when he was seven, there had been a Christmas special on the television at the Dursley's, and a man had been playing along with an orchestra. But, this was real. It was right in front of him.

Draco watched Harry's expression in the window, about six feet away. Even from where he sat, he could see the awe and innocence of complete bewilderment. It didn't have to seep into Draco to see that Harry was awed. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself, and his lips were parted open. His eyes were traveling the length of the piano keys, and he seemed to, at last, find something to say. But, he failed, and after he failed, his face began to droop. It almost seemed, in the window, that Draco was staring at Harry Potter, rather than Judas, because the facial expression was so overwhelmingly Harry Potter-esque that it made Draco breathless—really.

"What..." Harry's voice cracked. It was soft and low, and he didn't want to ever walk away from the moment. Something about Draco and his piano pulled him in. Draco was the one to play the piano, for Harry, before his very own eyes. Something so little, something Harry had never even thought or cared about, had become so important to him—so very important. He cleared his throat, as quietly as he could. "What was that you were playing?"

Draco's eyes floated down onto the cold ivory keys, where his fingertips were still resting. He cleared his throat, too, because Harry had. Harry seemed so interested, and so curiously naive that Draco would have felt like a gigantic bastard to turn it into some smart-ass situation. It was almost as if Harry had never heard the piano played, before, and nearly as if he had never seen someone play the keys. He glanced up over his right shoulder, without an answer, and let his fingers do the talking.

Harry smiled.

Draco grinned right back, and after a few moments, he opened his mouth and accompanied the keys as so they would not be lonely in an anticipating room, "My heart was broke, my head was sore... _what a feeling_." He looked up at Harry in the window to see that Harry was just staring at him, as if he were mad and he hadn't known what room he had walked into. But, Draco rolled his eyes to himself. Potter was enjoying every single second of sound, and Draco wasn't sure he was going to get Harry to leave, that night, even with the apparent massive headache he was harboring. It wasn't such a bad thing, to have Harry there all night with him—to have Harry _anywhere_ with him.

Harry pressed his lips together. He could feel his face brighten. Draco was _singing_—and so _brilliantly _well.

"Tied up in ancient history, I didn't believe in destiny, and I look up..." Draco looked at him, as Harry bravely stood beside the piano-bench that Draco was hogging. Harry looked right back at him, and for the first time, Draco could see the anxiety and sweetness building up in Harry's eyes. It was a physical change. The brown orbs had begun to glow in a bright way, and he seemed truly fixated on what was being heard, said and felt. For a very brief moment, Draco gave a pause in the music, before he continued on and grinned, pointedly, staring at Harry, just making something up, "...you're standing next to me—_oh, what a feeling_."

Harry began to laugh, without a flush or a blush in sight. He just watched Draco sing, infatuated with the skill. The tone of Draco's, the drawling growl that Harry had always heard, was just as present in the way Draco sang. But, it was pure. It was amazing—beautiful, _astounding,_ breathtaking. The way he sounded made Harry's blood pound faster. Plus, he played the piano without even looking down when he didn't have to, and Harry found that even more fascinating—out of all of the things in the world, all of the great powers in the world, all of the miracles and wonders—it was Draco and the piano that made him feel, for the first time, in a long time, like a child learning about the most brilliant, heart-clenching, exciting thing for the first time in his entire life.

Harry recognized Draco's words—heart broken, head sore, tied up in ancient history, and... it was them, one hundred percent.

Draco stopped playing, the pain in his jaws and cheeks becoming overpowering and nearly unbearable. He tore his eyes from Harry's, boyishly, and carefully lifted his fingertips up from the chord he had been fingering over. The smoothness of the keys had always been a constant in his life—something he easily remembered and had a hard time forgetting. He had spent many Saturdays of his life attached to a piano. No one had made him sit in front of it. No one had made him learn. Of course, he had been pushed to find an instrument he would have enjoyed to play—Lucius suggested the trumpet, his mother suggested the harp, and Cornwell had suggested the guitar. Naturally, Draco fell into the hands of the piano—or, perhaps, the keys of the piano fell into his. He had been a natural. His fingers were long, skillful, elegant and thin. They were fast fingers, and for some reason, his brain had always thought in terms of the sound of a piano, because he had learned very quickly, and it made sense to him.

Draco did something he had never done, before. He slid over to the left, "Want to play?"

He offered to let someone else _touch_ his piano.

Harry just stared at him, speechless for a long moment. He was still adjusting to all of the warmth and joy he was feeling. It was such an obvious moment—a connection. He was so inspired by Draco. He was so—so—so—completely enchanted with Draco, that he could hardly process the question. But, in one very small, timid breath, he quietly urged with a shake of his head, "Oh, no. No, I can't play. I've never even touched a piano."

Draco watched the other boy's shy expression. For a good five seconds, he was completely shell-shocked. POTTER was his, at last! He had Potter right there, shy and envious of him. It was clear that Harry was very taken with Draco's ability to play the piano. The development just shivered through Draco's veins, like fire. He felt good. He felt thankful. He felt like he needed Harry sitting beside him, at his piano, because that the right place for them to both be, at that moment in time. He shook his head, finally, "No, come on. Sit down, play," he insisted, happily.

Harry involuntarily began to fidget, and he shook his head from side to side, with an embarrassed flush, "I can't."

Draco stared at him, not sure what to say.

Harry felt his face begin to fill with warmth. Draco had never looked more appetizing or more splendid. His face had brightened. It was suddenly at aglow. It wasn't the face of the smarmy git that he usually saw. He wasn't even smiling, but he was certainly not frowning. He was waiting, patiently, with more-widened eyes, searching Harry for an answer. He was different. He was superbly... Draco. He was a superb being. He liked Draco looking at him the way he currently was, as Draco seemed to take pleasure in doing so—and not in a smug, mocking sort of way, but a true, deep rush of impassioned happiness—true friendship.

Draco lifted his right hand from the bench and pushed back his hair, fully, from his forehead. It was long enough that it all fell into some sort of catastrophe on the top of his head, he was sure, but he didn't care. After he pulled his hand away, he reached it out to Harry, expectantly, and waved it inward, as if to motion Harry to sit next to him, "Come on!"

Harry realized he was awkwardly standing there, fidgeting, so he tried to fix himself, and he put his hands behind his back, "No, you play. Really. I like to watch."

Draco slid over to the center of the bench, again. He just glanced at Harry, casually, as he did so. But, then he reached out with his right hand and grasped onto Harry's bare elbow, with a friendly and excited urge. He grinned, again, as if to sway Harry, when Harry looked at him with even more of a hesitant resistance to sit down at the piano and touch it. Draco didn't know what it was about the piano that Harry was too afraid to conquer, to even touch or feel or be closer to, but he wanted to change that just because of the way the piano influenced Harry's entire persona and aura after only a few notes, "Come on, Harry. At least touch it."

Harry went to protest, embarrassed, "I don't want to touch it!"

Draco suddenly chuckled, softly, and he tugged at Harry's elbow. It came down, willingly, "You do, too! Touch it!"

Draco's entire hand, still softly wrapped around Harry's arm, slid down. It didn't release and then re-grip. It just slid down to Harry's wrist, which was thin and very pale, whereas the rest of his body was a bit more tan. The touch took the heat from the candles in the room and threw it into Harry's fingertips. It literally felt like a fire had been lit right beneath his hand. The sensation traveled up his left arm, to his shoulder, across his chest and to the other arm and down. But, the hand Draco never touched never burned and throbbed with the liquid-type warmth. But, his right hand did just that—it was so physically affected that he was sure Draco would have felt it if Draco had been even an inch within his palm, so they would be palm to palm. He breathed, quickly, feeling himself shake at Draco's request, "I shouldn't touch it."

Draco instinctively tightened his grip around Harry's wrist. Sure enough, it went to make a quick get away, but Draco had been prepared. The wrist did not budge from his grasp, but it was hard enough of a tug that Draco slightly stood up, half-bent over, facing Harry, leaned over the bench, a bit. He had been staring into the brown eyes—god, DAMN, those brown eyes. He swallowed, pulling Harry's wrist toward the keys, "You SHOULD touch it! There's no reason you shouldn't touch it. It's HERE for you to touch. I'm OFFERING you to touch it—so, touch it!"

Harry went to protest, again, but Draco proved to be far more determined than he was.

Draco grabbed onto Harry's hand, with both of his own, each hand holding around the sides of Harry's, "God-damnit. Harry, _touch it._" He pulled the hand over the center of the piano, though Harry tried to pull it away. Draco didn't want Harry to get away without touching the piano, hearing it and having the room fill with the same sort of sound Draco knew Harry craved to hear, again. He just didn't trust himself, was all, to sit down and attempt to conquer and take victory over something that affected him in such a powerful way, when everything in his life had been about power—power he had conquered.

Draco slammed their hands down on the piano, but made sure only Harry's palm and fingers touched the keys.

Harry hadn't expected any sort of sound, but knowledge taught him that pressing down, carelessly, on a group of keys, would sound horrid. But, it didn't. It didn't. It felt... it felt so good. It sounded so good. It sounded... it sounded... he just stared down at Draco's hands, covering his own. He could feel the keys still vibrating beneath his fingers, as the sound gave way to the room. It shocked sparks of victory through him—but, it also sparked a lot more. He immediately took in a deep breath. Because Draco had tugged him, Harry had ended up with his knees on the bench and had been shoved against Draco, so Draco's right shoulder was pressing against the center of his own chest. It was full-contact—chest-arm, arm-arm, hand-to-hand.

Draco turned his face, just barely, toward the right, and he smiled.

Harry quickly diverted his attention back down to their hands, and he, at last, breathed an innocent laugh, "There."

Draco turned his face, again. He still smiled at Harry, who was so close to him. Draco wasn't able to repress his mouth-warmed action. He almost went to tell Harry that he was going to let go, like he was a father teaching his son to ride a broom, and, for the first time, taking his hand off of the back and releasing the safety-net-aspect of the new skill, thrill or adventure. It took a bit of willpower to even begin to lift his palms from over Harry's, but he reluctantly did so. He did cherish the moment for a second, however, and he knew Harry probably recognized it as what it was. But, when he did let go, he dropped back down onto the bench and looked up at Harry, to the right, with sparkling eyes.

Harry tore his eyes from where he had been staring, at the piano, and set them on Draco.

Draco gave a nod of his chin, as to not pressure an obviously statuesque Potter moment, "Sit down."

Harry did as he was told—he did what he wanted to do. He didn't want to not sit down. He immediately moved his feet and slipped in through the tiny space between the bench and the edge of the piano keys. He sat right down next to Draco, and lifted his other hand onto the keys, too. He noticed that Draco had kept his hands off of the keys, and was just watching Harry's fingers, as if curious as to what would come out of them on their first go. And, too, Harry wanted to know. He wanted answers straight away, and he wanted to produce some big spectacle of emotion, through the piano, in furious rhythms and messages—a grand opera of the fingers and the piano! He wanted to be—he wanted to produce greatness, because all of his emotions were suddenly feeling like they were going to burst through his body, and the piano was the perfect place to put them.

But, Harry's fingertip made the decision before his mind had even stopped analyzing what to do.

The only sound that came out of Harry's emotional knots, inside, was the one, tiny, unsure, wavering _ping_ of an E.

Draco stared, as Harry quickly pulled his fingertip back, and rested his hands on his lap. He looked distressed. Unsure of what to do, and unsure of what to say, Draco could only act on the moment. He leaned in closer to Harry, who was to his right. And, he stared right at Harry's neck, from five inches away—and, then three. He tried not to breathe—or move—or... smell—or... _feel_, but God knew he was feeling so much for Harry that it took a swallow of air to catch himself as still alive and still breathing when he felt the world was suddenly centered on Harry. He quietly breathed, "Play it, again."

The hair on Harry's neck stood straight, and his whole entire left side began to fill with goose-bumps. It shook through him in a giddy-like fashion, as by the sensation's rights, themselves. He swallowed down the gigantic swell at the base of his throat, and as he did so, his slightly-parted lips were forced to close together. He was confused. He was turned on my the piano? The symbolism of the piano? No, fuck no. Draco? _Draco_. Or was it all three together? As he shyly touched his right index fingertip over the key he had first played, a hard shock took him over, his shoulders filled with chills, and he decided that it was all three put together—but, it might have had to do something with Draco's breath being... right... there... by... his... neck—panicked by the feelings twisting in swelling in his chest and stomach, over the entire situation, Harry took in a harsh deep breath and slammed some fingers down on the piano, as if it would erase the whole entire moment.

The attempt failed.

Draco could not pull himself away. With weak enthusiasm, he managed to murmur a soft, "Better."

Harry took in a swallow of deep breath, his fingertips glued onto the keys he had just pounded. As they keys rose up, Harry could feel himself begin to shake, starting from the very inside of his chest, down to his stomach, ravenously through his lower body, and, then, at last, to his legs. He was sure that if he would have been standing, he would have fallen. Draco had not moved. The attempt had not been successful in the slightest, and Harry wasn't sure if he even cared about anything—about attempts or keys, people or his past—with the incredibly tender, heart-racing anxiety that Draco was suddenly bringing to him. Literally, his heart was racing. He was afraid to turn his head, so he refused to do so, "Yeah, better. You... uh, play, now."

Draco had every god-damn urge in the entire world to lean in closer, his mouth beginning to water and crave the soft, flawless, milky skin his eyes had become enchanted upon. He didn't know why, or how, or what was wrong with him, but he knew it felt good. He knew Harry was sitting right there, with him, knowing perfectly well of what the weather of the situation was, and he hadn't gotten up and run away, as he might have at the start of the summer. He wanted Harry fucking Potter—it was official. He just... he just wanted... a taste... a... a something. He wanted something of Harry's. He wanted a taste—but, it wasn't Harry he would taste. He wanted a touch—but, it wouldn't be fully Harry's touch. He wanted a kiss, but a kiss... a kiss... would... mean... everything—_shit_.

Abruptly, Draco withdrew the closeness of his face, having been purely and simply intoxicated. He still was, but he was trying to talk himself out it. Sure, he was attracted to Potter—to Cliffdale, too. Sure, he had been honest with Harry about how his feelings had been—or had he? He had never actually told Harry that he found him truly attractive. Judas was a gorgeous being, physically, and Harry wasn't much further behind on the looks department, but it wasn't JUST the physical that Draco was drawn to. It was far more than that—and, they both knew it. But, at the same time, they knew NOTHING of _it_.

Draco cleared his throat, sniffled and hit at the corner of his nose with his index fingertip, "Can you sing?"

Harry smiled down at his hands, mentally in awe. Good lord. Malfoy was torturous, yet still incredibly righteous, "No."

"Everyone can sing, Potter."

Harry turned his head to the left, suddenly, and went to say something.

Draco looked at him, cautiously.

Harry closed his mouth, squinted at him—a squint of which Draco returned—and then awkwardly looked away.

"I think it's safe to say that you've stolen the upper hand from me... _again_. Damn you, Potter. _Damn you_!"

Harry smiled at him, immediately, blatantly, without restriction. Draco was such a perfectly lovable bastard, and Harry cherished it, adored it and mentally celebrated it. He loved it even more that he knew where he could catch Draco being just plain lovable without the bastard part of the equation. He wasn't, at all, put off, by Draco's words. To go on and ignore what had just transpired would have been ridiculous. They were open-enough to each other, and far too involved with each other, to pretend it hadn't happened—but, they made it what it was without analyzing it—and, nothing needed to be awkward between them, because they weren't those sort of people—at least, not any more. It was, simply,_ just_ and _only_ what it was.

Draco smiled back at him, with a great smile of his own.

_There! _He had made mention of it!

Harry looked down over the keys, and then back to Draco with a full smile, "Play something. I'll sing."

"You said you couldn't sing!"

Harry shrugged at him, carelessly, "Fine, then you sing."

Draco's eyes narrowed at him, nearly sweetly, and he felt a happy flush take his face, "Gee, look how that works out."

Harry laughed, finally, loudly, and draped his left arm over Draco's shoulders, "Yeah, well, _we_ always work, don't we?"

The only thing Draco did was grin and answer back in key-strokes and a lowly added, "What a lovely _feeling_ in my _soul_."

"Yeah, I'll bet it's brighter than _moonshine_," Harry chided, out of no where, enjoying the music and the endearing lyrics..

Draco didn't snort or laugh, but he did keep on smiling. He also kept playing, while Harry added in his little snippet of randomness. It was cute, actually, the way Harry had just thrown some words in there, as if trying not to make it obvious that he was intrigued by Draco's words during their small piano-session. He lifted out his elbow and nudged Harry's side, tilting his head to the right, at Harry, and smiled rather brightly, without shame, "I'm yours, and, suddenly, you're mine," Draco slightly spoke and slightly sang, but he _fully_ stared at Harry, while leaning in a bit closer to Harry, for effect. "_Me and you, what a feeling_."

Harry's left eyebrow cocked up, but he didn't stop grinning at Draco. They were humoring each other, "You keep your mouth three feet away from me!" It was a new rule! But, it really wasn't meant to be.

Draco stopped singing but kept playing. He looked back at Harry, unabashedly, "But, I have such a _pretty _mouth."

"No one said you didn't."

As Draco leaned down and beamed at the keys he was playing, Harry saw a dimple appear in his cheek, for the first time, ever. With a grin, too, his eyes widening a fraction at the new development on Draco's face, Harry lifted his lightly-draped arm from over Draco's shoulders. He tilted his elbow up, as he watched Draco's dimple get deeper and deeper. Malfoy was beautiful. He was a boy, and he was unbelievably fucking beautiful—no one could deny it. And, anyone who did deny it was simply lying or incapable of seeing a man as beautiful instead of rugged. Draco was a total pretty-boy, and he wore it well. But, Harry had never seen Draco with a dimple. This meant that he had never seen Draco smiling as hard as he was smiling, at that moment. There was nothing more flattering to Harry, and he felt himself take a rather large chunk of pride and glee over seeing Draco so jubilant

With aching cheeks of his own, Harry cupped the back of Draco's neck, squeezed, and then dropped his hand away.

There were all sorts of little twinkles and lights sparkling between them when they glanced at each other, once more.

Draco sat up, straight, at the eye-contact, "Potter, coffee or bed? Are you feeling brave?"

"What about coffee in a bedroom? Preferably mine, so I don't have to get up and leave once I'm warm."

Draco made no odd face, just nodded as he played, "Sounds good. To your bed we go, Potter."

"Bed_room_, Malfoy!"

Draco stopped playing the piano, at last. He looked at Harry, with bright gray eyes, "But, I'm _very _cuddly."

Harry snorted. He did nothing for a long moment, before he groaned and stood up, "Find a boyfriend, then. The prospects are probably very high, if any of your friends indicate interest by their awkward gazes at you."

Draco laughed, hard, and he heard Harry doing the same as he walked toward the coffee tray, "_What_? Who, then?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder, his forehead wrinkled, "Do you truly not know who I'm referring to?"

Draco turned around on the dark-wooden, polished, sparkling piano bench that matched the same as his piano. He didn't get up, though. His eyes watched Harry walk. God, it was such a nice walk. It wasn't Judas Cliffdale's walk. It was Harry Potter's. It was nice to watch, as it was one of the only physical resemblances of Harry in Judas's every-day, familiar face. Draco had grown accustomed to seeing the dark hair and dark eyes of Judas Cliffdale, but he yearned, again, to see Harry, but he never spoke of it, because he knew how much it killed Harry to discuss something he was never sure he would have back. It was a touchy subject, and that had been made very clear on many different occasions. During their dream-trip, earlier in the night, he hadn't really been able to focus on Harry. He had just seen him from far away, and other, more important things had been on their plates—things which demanded far more attention than how Harry Potter looked.

"What do you mean? _Who_?"

Harry felt a very small sense of pity for Draco's honest naiveté, "I'll tell you, upstairs. Revoke the spell, then meet me up there."

"Why can't you just wait for me, then, Potter? Revoking the spell will take five seconds, won't it?" Draco's eyes lit up.

Harry turned away from him, with the coffee tray in his arms, "Give me five minutes, Malfoy."

"_Five minutes_? Oh, _dear_, Potter. Bless your little heart."

Harry glared at him, but he wasn't truly frustrated or annoyed, "You're not THAT tempting. I assure you."

Draco laughed, as he stood up from the bench. He followed Harry's footsteps toward the door, "How dare you! I am _delicious_!"

When Harry opened his bedroom door, at least ten minutes later, he wasn't surprised to see that Draco was already there. He was laying on his stomach, on Harry's bed, facing the end of it. He had two dark-green pillows with him, which Harry immediately recognized as pillows from Draco's own bed, and over him was a comforter—yes, a dark green comforter with tiny, tiny golden stars thrown all over it. He squinted his very suspicious and quizzical eyes at Draco, pointing at him.

But, Draco was just laying there, with his hands under his two pillows, staring right back at him. How had Malfoy managed to get his pillows and comforter from his room and take them to Harry's, when all Harry had done was run the tray of drinks to the kitchens before hurrying up to his room so he could wash his face to refresh himself, because he was feeling quite faint, and still had a mild headache—which had been extremely worse when he had left Draco's study.

All of Harry's once-open windows were closed, and it was cold in the room, which felt amazing on the hot night.

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows.

Harry walked toward him, wrapping his arms around his chest. He pointed with a fingertip, "You're on my bed."

Draco collapsed back down into his pillows and closed his eyes, "Yeah, it's the best place to be."

Brighter Than Sunshine - Aqualung


	14. Transition

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note: **Thanks Bezzie and Dragenphly, for reviewing! I hope everyone enjoys the next chapter!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Fourteen

Transition

Harry walked around the end of the bed. He unwrapped his arms from around himself and yawned. Well, Draco was on his bed. It wasn't a big deal. He had his own covers. It was cold, so it was probably a good thing he had brought them, anyway. If Draco ended up crashing in his room, if he was too tired and lazy to head back to his room by whatever time they were done talking or brainstorming, Harry wouldn't mind. He groaned, under his breath, as he placed his hands down over his own comforters and pushed upward. He lifted himself up onto the covers and then fell back into them, so he was left staring up at the dark canopy of the bed in the dim room. His bed was like a cloud. The comforters were so heavenly, and his body sunk into them, creating the very most perfect, relaxing sensation in the world. He sat up on his elbows, however, and looked toward his left, toward the bundle of Draco. He could only see a bright head sticking out from under a dark comforter at the foot of the bed, "You all right?"

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows, again, staring down at his pillows, "Who did you mean?"

Harry pulled himself all of the way up and wrapped his arms around his inclined knees, "Clive."

Draco spun around and sat up so fast that the covers didn't have a chance in restraining him, "What, _Clive_?" That was impossible. Not only was it impossible, but... but... it was Clive! Clive was amazing-looking, and he and Draco had been friends for quite some while, but Draco had never seen Clive take interest in him other than in the way of a friendship. He stared at the figure sitting diagonal of him, who was just giving him this look of doubt and skepticism. It was a look that Draco didn't think was very appropriate for the situation, so he quickly defended himself. "He's _straight_."

"Draco, you and I claim to be straight to the world, but look at the situations we get ourselves into."

Draco had not expected, ever, to hear that sort of response from Harry, "Yes, but, we are profoundly different, and to compare what we have to what we have with anyone else is just... pointless." Harry shrugged. "He's... _Clive_."

"That whole fight you shared started because he was_ jealous_. There is no other reason he would have reacted as he had. He was mad at me, and I'd never even met him. If he was glaring at me, glaring at you, picking a fight with you over me, if I assume correctly—what else can be concluded? He's into you _that_ way." He didn't see the option any other way. He saw what he saw, and he was amazed that Draco hadn't seen it! Draco seemed very keen on sensing others' feelings, but, perhaps he was immune to pinpointing such emotions when they were directed at him.

Draco was frowning. How could he not have seen that? He sighed, again, though, and growled, "But, he has a girlfriend!"

Harry didn't take Draco's exclamation with much regard, "Well, he likes you, Draco. You have that effect on the male species. The whole of Hogwarts would probably agree. Maybe he's not straight, and maybe he's not gay. Maybe he's somewhere in the middle."

"Are you cold?"

Harry, who was very tired, blankly gave Draco a stony face, confused as to the topic change.

Draco motioned to the end of his comforter, "It's big, plenty of room. You don't have to mess with your covers, yet.

Harry shrugged and pulled part of the dark blanket up over his knees, "Why don't you come up here?"

"I didn't think you'd want me on your bed, much less laying on your pillows."

Harry fell back into his pillows, mentally laughing. He stretched his arms out above his head and extended his fingertips up into the dark abyss of heavy curtain. When he felt the bed move, he dropped his arms down to his face and rubbed over it, his fingertips taking lead to his temples, to rid of the unwanted pain that brewed there. He needed to sleep—and, Draco looked as if he were not as ready for talkative conversation that the moment had suggest. He dropped his hands when the movement on the bed stopped, and his face fell to his right shoulder, and he was staring, eye to eye, with a good foot of distance, with a pair of steely, light eyes. His eyes examined the mess of hair on Draco's head, and he figured that Draco had moved under his comforter instead of over it. He snorted, but looked away, because Draco was already seeing to it that his hair was smoothed down with his hands, "I never picked up the new tray of coffee."

"We weren't going to drink it, anyway."

Harry grinned, his eyes fluttering to a close. He took in the moment and the silence. His body was very ready to fall asleep. Plus, the room was very chilly, and that felt nice, beneath the comforters. It made him want to bury himself in the covers and sink into a dark slumber. He thought he rather deserved a nice, full sleep, after the night he had experienced. His eyelashes began to tap together, and he looked up at the canopy, his attention hesitantly switching back to the reason the night had taken its informative turn, "Earlier, you mentioned Gringotts?"

Draco sunk down next to Harry, so their shoulders were even, and he stared up at the canopy, "I have to sign some paperwork for your belongings," he quietly returned, and let his right cheek meet his own pillow, which he had fluffed down behind him. A pair of dark eyes were looking back at him, with expressive emotion. "I'm not going to have them move your things. I'm going to keep your parents vault, so when you're back, nothing will have changed."

Harry mumbled something about a thanks, but it was so low that neither truly made it out.

Draco just took in the features he was free to examine and explore with his eyes, "We were talking about where memories could exist. I figure there is no better place for your parents to have put their important belongings than in their vault. Maybe there's something there, some information that will point us in the right direction—fuck, _any_ bloody direction."

Harry gave a lone nod, "If there is information, we'll find it."

"Oh, _lovely_. We can spend the day, tomorrow, sitting amongst galleons in a dungeon."

Harry laughed, under his breath, at the true joy in Draco's voice. He finally turned his eyes away from resting above Draco's head on the pillow. He didn't want to indulge in staring at Draco, not yet. There were far too many feelings and questions open to Harry's mind. He was far too vulnerable to go about wanting to look back at Draco just how he wanted to. He had things on his mind—he was even becoming hesitant about falling asleep, for fear he'd end up in dream-state, again, and something horrible would happen. He sighed, however, and just tossed his attention, fully, onto the iridescent skin of Draco's face. It was the right place to look, because his eyes landed on Draco's, and he remembered that he was not alone in what he was feeling and what was plaguing at his nerves. His mind became silent, and he began to smile, at ease, "Your natural preference of a place to be, Malfoy?"

"Yes, but I'm rather fond of your bed, and this might be my new _natural preference_."

Harry laughed, harder and louder, "Do realize I'm not opposed to kicking you out."

Draco turned on his side, facing Harry, a couple of minutes later. They had been laying in complete silence, both staring up above them, both lost in their own thoughts. And, the covers were very warm, and the room was very cold. It was perfect, at least for Draco. The temperature that was created, between his covered body and his exposed head and one shoulder, was just right.

Harry peeked at him, and then frowned, deeply. Draco's expression was serious, "A knut for your troubled thoughts?"

Draco's eyebrows lifted, and then he smirked.

Harry laughed at the automated, perfected reaction, "Okay. Fine, then. A galleon?"

"A kiss and you have yourself a deal." Therefore, there would be no sharing of Draco's troubled thoughts.

Harry smiled, looking up at the canopy top, again. He didn't make any sudden movements as to make Draco defensive. He had wondered, as they were laying there, if Draco had fallen to sleep, but he had his answer. He felt unsure of what to say to Draco. He wanted to ask if something was wrong, and he wanted Draco to tell him. But, there were many things wrong in both of their lives, so there must have been something particular making Draco's eyebrows furrow and stitch.

Harry turned on his side, a second or so later, and he pulled Draco's blanket up over his right shoulder. The comforter smelled like Draco. It smelled of something sweet and something cool. He didn't know what it smelled like. He just knew it smelled good and natural. He snuck his fingertips up to his mouth, as he covered it with the comforter, hurriedly kissed his fingertips and then reached out to Draco's face and pressed them against Draco's warm, unsuspecting cheek, with a smirk.

Draco hadn't had time to struggle. But, his face did fall, as Harry's hand withdrew, "That doesn't count."

"I have the upper hand, because you gave it to me, which means I get to rule. I say it counts."

"I say you're an arse, and goodnight to you."

Harry turned his back to Draco, pulled his wand from his pocketed and muttered, "_Lumos Silencia._"

Draco fell onto his belly, beneath his comforter, and stuffed his hands under his two pillows and the pillows that sat further up on the head of the bed. His back arched, his toes stretched, and he yawned into the pillow. Potter hadn't kicked him out. He smiled, softly, to himself, when he rested his head down. He almost went to say something, but decided against it. He thought about the body to his left, and his face shyly snuggled out of its straight-on position against the center of his cool pillow. His eyes latched onto the back of the dark head opposite of him, and he smiled even harder. With a mental groan, he made himself pull his eyes away and dove right back into the comfort of his pillow to keep from mumbling, murmuring and beginning to talk gibberish. He was far too thrilled to be unrestrained and able to make noise—noises which Harry would immediately question.

Harry looked over his shoulder, suddenly, "Did you say something?"

Draco pulled his head up, "What? _No_, of course not."

Harry stared, extremely interested, as Draco's face flooded with amusement, and then collided back with his pillow. His own left eyebrow hooked up, and he questioned, "Malfoy...?"

Draco pulled the comforter up over the back of his head, smiling too hard to be able to mask it, "I didn't say anything."

Harry's eyes narrowed in the dark, in a friendly way, but he carefully turned his face away and rested his cheek.

At some point during the night, Draco woke and drowsily saw that Harry was facing him. It made his heart ache.

It was sometime later that Draco felt himself fall from his dreams and land in a fully-alive body into a dark tunnel. He immediately turned around to see that he was back in the hallway he had been in earlier that night, and he was alone. When he turned back to face the open end of the hallway that lingered out in front of him, he threw himself back against the wall and covered his heart, because a man had stepped out from the darkest corner beside him. It was Lucius, and Draco went to say something, but Lucius grabbed a hold of his upper arms, strongly, gripped them as hard as he could, as if to make it very clear to Draco that he was in dream-state, and he dipped his head, stared into Draco's eyes and, just over a whisper, breathed, "They're on their way to the manor, the whole lot of them, and by now, they're close. They've been blowing things up all night to get attention—especially Cornwell's. Get everyone out, go somewhere they won't expect, _anywhere_—and, make sure Harry's bookcase is with you, along with anything that he might have been writing in or using. Go, _now_."

Draco went to take a deep breath, and a second later, as his eyes flew into an open terror, he inhaled. He pushed himself up, onto his knees, and immediately threw back the comforters from over him. The freezing room shocked his warm body for a good second before he went to shake Harry. But, Harry, probably having awoken at the sudden disappearance of the warmth around him, was drowsily looking over his shoulder, as if for an answer. But, he sat right up, immediately, on his hands, "Death Eaters. Manor—make sure everything you've written in is put back in the case—that journal thing you write in—run down to the servants quarters, gather the house-elves and come right back here with them—_all_ of them."

Both of them were already off of the bed and hurrying toward the door, stumbling to do so.

"Number twelve, Grimmauld place—the Black Estate, Order Headquarters. We'll go there, have you got it?" Harry demanded, over Draco's shoulder.

When Draco threw the door open, with a strong "Yes!"

Harry ran toward the left, and Draco ran toward the right. 

Draco had never run so fast in his entire life, and he was sure of it. His feet pounded down the wooden hallways of each and every hallway and stair he had to, his heels taking sharp pressures of collision because of doing so. His strides were long, and his blood was pounding like thunder in his veins, and he was able to hear it in his head. He felt like the Death Eaters would burst into the quiet, peaceful manor at any moment, and that scared him to death. He had his mother, father and brother and family of house elves, that he had grown up with, in the manor. And, with the exception of Cornwell, everyone else was innocent to the situation—innocent to the capture and possible torture of frustrated, hungry death eaters, who were, no doubtedly, looking for Cornwell, and because Voldemort now knew of Draco and Cornwell's fully relation-knowing relationship, he also must have realized where Cornwell had been staying, and there was no doubt that Voldemort wanted Cornwell.

What he wanted to do with Cornwell, Draco didn't know. He just knew that it was bad.

Draco first got to his mother's room. He slammed his body into the door as he turned the knob, as to not waste time with the unnecessary art of turning the doorknob, calmly and without force, to open the door. The door gave way, and it burst open. The knob hit the wall with a bang, which succeeded in making his mother jump out of her sleep from a couch she was sitting on, snuggled up, in front of a fire, in the cold, very-air-conditioned room, with a book in her hands. She screamed, her hand over her heart as she threw the book with the other. He could see her, with the hallway light behind him, but he knew she could only see his shadow. He hurried to her, "You have to get up—right now—death eaters are on the way in."

Narcissa just stared at him before her eyes widened, in obvious horror, "What!"

Draco just motioned toward the door with his hands, "_Death eaters_! NOW! We have to get to Cornwell and Dickie." She no longer seemed to be processing the shock, because she hurriedly pushed away her blanket and jumped onto her feet, still dressed in the black pants-suit he had seen her in earlier in the day. He hurried out of the room, leaving her to follow him. And, when he looked over his shoulder, at a run, she was already rushing after him, looking horrified and terrified at the same time. He let her catch up, which only took about two seconds, and she led the way for Cornwell's previously unused wing of the house, which Draco hoped Cornwell was sleeping instead of sitting in a lounge, library or other room, somewhere, where Draco wouldn't have been able to find him very quickly.

Draco took the lead toward Cornwell's wing, and his mother kept up very well. He kept looking over his shoulder to make sure she was still with him, and she was. She was rather fast, actually, and Draco realized that he hadn't seen his mother run since he had been about six years old. And, as they reached Cornwell's wing, his mother was nearly crying, and the word "Dickie" and "little one" kept tumbling out of her mouth. Draco only heard her words through the tiny spaces of time when his own blood-pounding was not hounding over his brain and ability to hear.

Draco pointed at Dickie's door, but his mother was already hurrying down the hallway. He turned his attention away and ran toward Cornwell's door, to the left. He had a bad feeling. As he turned the doorknob, he groaned. All of the candles were still brightly lit, and his bed was perfectly made. Pissed off and feeling ridiculously anxious as to the whereabouts of his father, Draco spun out of the room in a pivot on his right foot, and he hurriedly began running from door to door, and, at last, he just screamed, "CORNWELL?"

When nothing returned his voice, Draco grasped the top of his head and turned around, just in time to see his mother hurrying out of Dickie's room. And, Dickie was sound asleep on her shoulder, in a pair of white cotton shorts and a white T-shirt. He looked peaceful, but the woman holding him looked very panicked and desperate, and she looked beside Draco, as if for Cornwell, but Draco shook his head, to his own miserable fate. He had to find Cornwell. "Go to Harry's—_Judas's_—room. Don't stop running—and, once you're there, don't MOVE. If Judas isn't there, stay put. He'll be there soon enough. Do you understand me, mum?" Draco asked and grasped her upper arms, as Lucius had done to his own.

Narcissa blinked, "Yes, but—did you say Harry?"

Draco let go of her arms, "No, I said _hurry_." It wasn't too far-fetched, actually. She said nothing else to him. She just turned and ran out of the room, without saying anything else back to him or questioning his safety or plans. This left him alone in the wing, stabilized and silent. He turned around and started straight for the end of the hallway, breathing deeply to prepare for what might come before him on his search of the estate. Cornwell could have been _anywhere_.

When he reached the wall, he pressed his wand against it, hard, and uttered the Malfoy code of arms.

The wall in front of him gave way and opened a tiny dark hole. He stepped in through it, heard the door close behind him, and then he swished his wand. The hallway lit before him. It was a hallway Draco hadn't been in since Cornwell had moved out. Draco had rarely set foot in Cornwell's wing, once he had left, because it had hurt too much. So, Draco had left everything preserved as memories rather than a continued part of his life. The hallway was narrow, dusty and led to a hugely narrow, extensive set of steps that led down onto the main-floor of the Malfoy estate and into one of the libraries—which was his best bet to get to Cornwell, secretly, in-case the death eaters entered the house, which would prove to be tricky in trying to get around without being seen.

When Draco entered the library, it was empty. He hurried back into the passageway through which he had entered, heard it seal behind him, and them he ran down the narrow walk-way for his next-best guess. He re-emerged, seconds later, in another empty room—his study. He jumped out, closed the open portrait through which he had entered, and then hurried toward his study door, in the dark room. He knew no one was in there, because he had set a spell on it, before he had set up for Harry's bedroom, earlier in the night. He had just done it out of paranoia, for no particular reason, but he was beginning to understand that he had reason to trust his instincts in ways he never had, before.

Draco hurried out of his door and closed it behind him, quietly. He ran down the hallway, opened the door to the next hallway, and instead of going straight, he turned right, into a lesser-used pathway, and he ran down it. It lead to Lucius's study, a library and random sitting rooms, plus the left-side gardens of the left wing of the house. It was a long hallway, but it passed very quickly. When he reached the end of this hallway, he peeked around the left corner, which led out into the grand entry room.

When he saw or heard nothing, he breathed, inside, with great relief, and he proceeded forward with careful footsteps. He didn't know why he did not run. Everything in his body, in his gut, wanted him to run, but his mind told him other wise. His mind told him that the entry hall was too bright and too silent, for the middle of the night, to be natural. He hurried down the wall, toward the end of it, carefully switching sides as he did so.

There, walking out of the dining hall, shirtless, with a sandwich of some sort, was Cornwell. With a huge sigh, Draco went to step out of the hallway, but as soon as his eyes poked out an inch further, he quivered. Every inch of his body shook. About forty death-eaters were standing, with their backs to him, about fifteen feet to the left side of his hallway. They were hidden behind the staircase, but could easily see Cornwell, whereas Cornwell could not see them.

Draco's entire body nearly burst into flames, and he felt like he was going to cry.

Cornwell was taking his merry old time toward the steps.

For a brief moment, he stopped, licked one of his fingertips and murmured a satisfactory sound, as if musing to himself.

Draco's eyes flickered and digressed onto the numerous amount of wand-gripped hands that were preparing to have their ways with his father. He wanted to do something! Anything! He wanted to scream! He wanted to yell! He wanted to—thank fucking God. Draco's eyes lifted up, at the last minute, to the grand banister above the staircases. To the right of the banister, in the dark, was a face peeking around. It was Harry.

Draco stepped out from beside the wall, because no one could have seen him, and he frantically waved.

Harry's eyes landed directly onto his own.

Draco pointed to the group of Death Eaters that Harry could not see, and he mouthed, "DEATH EATERS!" He flashed both of his hands up, four times, as if to suggest to Harry that there were forty of them. And, Harry immediately looked away and fixed his eyes onto an oblivious Cornwell, who was making his way toward the staircases. Unsure of what to do, and what was going to happen, Draco realized that they had to make the best out of their situation. He knew that Voldemort wanted Judas and himself. He knew that Voldemort wanted Cornwell, so no one would kill Cornwell, right there. They would seize him and flee, and with the massive amount of the death eaters that were present, it was clear that Voldemort had sent an army for a reason.

He seemed to suspect quite the bit of fighting from Cornwell, which would require several men and women.

Harry watched the helplessness wash over Draco's face, as their eyes locked, again. There was only one thing to do, with Harry in front of the Death Eaters, and Draco behind them, with Cornwell in between the whole lot of them. The end would justify the means. Harry blew breath out from his lips, sucked in his hesitance, fear and pure regret, and casually walked out from behind the wall, looking down over the banister, "Cornwell, there you are."

Cornwell stepped, about fifteen feet to the right of the stairs. He looked up, "Hello, Judas. What can I help you with?"

Harry hurried along the length of the banister, staring very hard at Cornwell, "Is that a sandwich? I'd love a sandwich."

Cornwell's eyebrows furrowed as Harry hesitantly began to walk down the steps, "It is a sandwich."

Draco could nearly see the ideas popping up in front of the Death Eater's eyes—if they brought Judas and Cornwell, both, to Voldemort, it would be a double-deal. They would be praised. They would be celebrated. They would have killed two birds with one stone. But, knowing to not yet do anything, Draco began taking very careful steps out of the hallway. He was glad he wasn't wearing socks or slippers, as he was scared to death to make a sound—in fact, if someone turned around, just for the sake of it, to keep watch, he would be doomed and screwed, but he figured he was doomed either way. If they took Cornwell, Draco would never, ever forgive himself. It was a lose-lose situation, but it was also a win-win situation—a win-win situation that Draco wanted to take a risk on making sure happened.

Harry walked on the left side of the stair-case, staring at Cornwell, right back, "I don't know how to make sandwiches."

Cornwell stopped chewing. He blinked, "Don't you, then? Come on, I'll teach you."

Harry swallowed as he reached the bottom step. He didn't turn his back to the staircase. Instead, he looked right to his right, as if he did not see anything out of the ordinary, and he pointed at a painting on the wall, hanging grandly and innocently, "You know, that's my favorite painting in the estate." And, knowing that all of the death eaters would have had to duck down for their own safety, Harry snapped his head back to Cornwell and mouthed, "DEATH EATERS!" But, Cornwell had already, apparently, known, because he did not look around for anything suspicious, but rather held his sandwich up as he took a giant stride to get to Harry.

Harry realized Cornwell had picked up on the flaws of the moment when Harry had said he didn't know how to make sandwiches.

As if right on cue, Draco slammed the front door to a close in such a furious bang that the room shook.

The distraction caused the death-eaters to divert their attention to the doorway and become discombobulated.

Harry grabbed onto Cornwell's shoulder and watched Draco disappear about a millisecond before they did.

But, that millisecond appeared entirely too hesitant of a departure, and as they disapparated, the pressure of a spell shot at Cornwell collided with Cornwell's chest and into Harry. And, as they disappeared into the time and space of the universe, the weight in Harry's arms became dead and paralyzed, and when he landed, seconds later, on the black marble entry-room of number twelve, Grimmauld place, he was on his knees with his arms wrapped under the arms of Cornwell, who was sprawled out on the floor, lifelessly, with closed eyes.

There was no need for Harry to call for help, because help had been waiting.

A massive amount of Order members swallowed down the space above Cornwell, in a giant circle. They had been waiting when they had appeared in the room, and Harry knew it was because Narcissa Malfoy had told them to be prepared. He had run back to his bedroom, at the Malfoy estate, with the whole group of house-elves. And, when he had arrived, Narcissa and Dickie had been waiting. She had told him that Draco had gone off looking for Cornwell, so Harry had told her to apparate everyone, and his bookcase, to Grimmauld Place, the Order Headquarters. It was the only place he knew was safe, even though he was sure only a hundredth of the members at the Order knew who he was, or why he would know to apparate to number twelve Grimmauld place in the first place.

But, it seemed that everyone in the room knew exactly who the man was on the floor.

"Bloody hell, it _is _him," hissed a medi-wizard. "Set his head down. He'll be okay."

Harry carefully pulled himself back, on his knees, and lowered Cornwell's upper body down onto the floor, trusting the men and women around him to be right—amongst those men and women, Remus, Tonks and a very weary, tired-looking Dumbledore. His attention diverted from the group, however, when a pair of hands appeared, from his left. It was Draco. And, it was Draco who leaned in, beside Harry, as Harry let go of Cornwell's arms and shoulders, who placed his hands under the dark head and slowly lowered it down onto the hard, cold floor that they were all kneeling on, with the exception of a few.

Draco leaned down over his father's face, upside down, and silently stared.

Harry glanced at Draco, and then at Dumbledore, hesitantly.

Albus was still wearing his night-cap, but appeared very alert. He returned Harry's expression.

Harry looked back at Draco, "He'll be fine."

Draco lifted his spine. He sat back on his heels, without looking at Harry. He knew Cornwell would be fine, but that didn't mean that he wasn't worried or scared. Cornwell's body was still warm, that Draco had felt, and he looked just as healthy and aglow as ever, which was good news for Draco. But, he didn't like just sitting there watching the medi-wizards playing with tools on his father that they didn't need to be using, when Draco already knew what was wrong. He rolled his eyes and looked at Harry, finally, who looked back at him with curiously suspicious eyes. "_You know, Cornwell, I don't know how to make sandwiches! Teach me how, won't you?_ You were practically drooling over him."

Harry began to laugh, loudly, "What! What would you have done, then, genius? It worked, didn't it!--I do not _drool_."

"But, _sandwiches_? Who doesn't know how to make sandwiches! It was a giveaway—and, you _were_ drooling."

"You know, Malfoy, if I wasn't so in love with you, I might hit you."

Draco smirked before looking back down at his father, "Though, I must say, he is very good-looking—fit, too."

"Look at you, partaking in family dysfunction."

Draco paled. He turned to Harry, immediately, who was looking at him with widened, challenging eyes. Oh, it was a total boundary. And, while the rest of the wizards went on examining Cornwell, Draco didn't realize that he and Harry were probably being watched, as well. Only Dumbledore knew that "Judas" was Harry, so it was only Dumbledore who would not have been stunned by why the Malfoy family, plus Judas Cliffdale, had apparated into Order headquarters—yet, they had not made anyone leave, it seemed. But, none of that mattered, because Draco lunged at Harry, but halfway into the lunge, it turned into a hug, and when they landed, ungracefully, they were both laughing, and Draco clutched onto Harry like a leech while Harry thrashed to get away from him, cracking up and snorting with laughter, "For that, I will scar you for the rest of your miserable, brooding life with a humiliating kiss."

"Scar me! I rather enjoy your little hugs by now. And, like I said, you keep your mouth three feet away from me!"

Draco glared, as he pushed himself up, over Harry, with his arms, "You were drooling, and so was everyone else."

"You know," Harry returned, as he sat up on his butt and pulled his knees up, "he's not bad-looking, Malfoy. At all."

"You're already admittedly in love with my looks, so you couldn't _not_ find him attractive."

Harry snorted, "You're a bastard, you know, though I still love you—well, like you—or, deal with you. Well, _tolerate_ you."

"Yeah, that's what you were saying last night—did I say _saying_? I meant _feeling_! No, I meant _visualizing_!"

A throat cleared.

It was at that very interval that Draco and Harry realized that the room had since become silent, slowly. Perhaps they had figured the room had begun to clear, but it hadn't. The whole entire group, including a sitting Cornwell, who had his arms wrapped around his knees, loosely, was staring at them, with opened mouths, confused eyes, amusement and bewilderment. But, the person who looked the most _anything_, out of all of them, was Cornwell, whose eyebrows were so high on his head, and his forehead was so wrinkled, that they might have disappeared into his messy, dark hair. His mouth was twisted, his eyes were darkly doting on them, his cheeks were sucked in, and he gave them one very long, expressive, quizzical, all-too-emotional, breath-catching eye lock. His eyes and eyelashes were so large and dark, so expressive, that it seemed he was the most important person to look to—and, perhaps, he was.

Draco itched at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at Harry.

Harry was staring back at him, but then he rubbed his cheek down onto his shoulder, incredibly embarrassed.

Draco looked away from everyone. When he had passed Cornwell, with his eyes, he had remembered the events of the night before. He had remembered how little he had known about Cornwell, and how much he hurt over it. His destiny had been written out before he had had a choice to decide, and both of his paths, apparently, led him back to Voldemort, somehow. He was intertwined with Voldemort from both of his fathers, and it killed him. He hadn't realized the emotion that looking at Cornwell would have brought to his body. He suddenly felt broken. He felt furious, helpless and empty, even though the room was filled with his favorite people, in the world. His eyes flickered from the ground and back to Harry. He pushed himself up, "Come on, Cliffdale, show me where I sleep."

"How would he know?" Questioned Remus Lupin.

Draco looked at him, blankly, and then back to Harry, who gave him a strong warning glare, "Because he knows."

Harry lifted both of his hands into the air as Draco offered his hand down, carelessly, and he grasped Draco's one hand with both of his own. It was not hard to see what had happened when Draco had last looked at Cornwell. And, perhaps no one else had noticed, and if they had, they would have had no idea of the extent of the emotion that had flickered over Draco's face for a brief moment, and the look of complete and utter heartbreak as Cornwell looked away from him and to a standing Lucius Malfoy, who had been standing beside Dumbledore the whole entire time.

Draco pulled Harry up.

"Draco, are you feeling all right?" Narcissa quietly asked, from her knees beside Cornwell.

Draco looked at her, and then Cornwell, and then he looked at Harry, with even more deadened eyes.

Harry grimaced as Draco began to count, quietly, backward, and he turned his back to the entire group and started for the staircase that his eyes had landed on, and he had absolutely no idea where he was going. Draco appeared to be on the verge of a meltdown, and Harry didn't blame him for just wanting to get away from everyone in the room, so he could relax himself. There were far too many issues in one room for him to handle at one time—especially around a group of people he, nor Harry, knew.

As Draco passed Dumbledore, he openly glared and scowled.

"Draco," hissed Narcissa, at his expression, who had stood up, her face very upset.

Albus did not glare back, just gave a goofy, helpless glimmer of a grin, "Sleep well."

Harry clasped his hand over his forehead and leaned back, heavily, against a wall to watch the inevitable begin. Oh, Dumbledore, _bad timing_.

Draco stopped, abruptly, and he heard Harry choke a cough from a distance. Sleep _well_? Draco spun around on his right foot, from in front of the stairs, and he stormed back toward the group of men and women. As he did so, Cornwell stood up, with the help of Lucius—who Draco had not even realized was in the room, because he had not been paying full attention—and another wizard who Draco did not know. He walked toward Harry, who was frowning and rubbing his hands over his face, obviously stressed, "Come on, _Judas_. We'll go get some rest—oh, that's right, we CAN'T." He turned from Harry and stared, horribly, at Cornwell.

Cornwell's eyes filled with despair, and he stepped forward, blindly.

"You're damn right. You can't get rest until you've told us what happened!" Insisted a nameless Order member.

Draco looked at him, and then at Harry.

Harry shook his head, seriously, "Save it for tomorrow. It needs more time to settle."

"_What_ needs more time to settle?" Asked a woman, crossly, apparently in a very pissy mood.

"Like you don't know," Draco spat, viciously, turning to accuse everyone, again. "I bet you _all_ know what I don't—"

"Well, Draco and I are going to go find somewhere to, um, rest," Harry interrupted, at last. He stepped off from the wall and grasped his hand over Draco's mouth. Draco did not struggle with him, so Harry dropped his hand and gave Draco a very hard, obvious shove toward the stairs. He knew people saw it, because they immediately looked at him as if there were something wrong with him, but Harry ignored them. He followed Draco toward the stairs, and when he caught up with him, he pressed his right shoulder behind Draco's left. "Don't say anything stupid in front of people you don't even know."

"They all know Cornwell better than I do. They all know why Cornwell is Cornwell."

"You know that isn't true—they don't know him better, and I'm sure none of them know _why_ he is who he is."

Harry glanced over his right shoulder and gave an easy smile to the group, sheepish. But, they were all waiting. None of them seemed intent on letting Harry shove Draco up the stairs without their answers—answers they rightly deserved, as the Order, but Harry was put in a difficult position. On one hand, the Order needed information, but on the other hand, Draco was easily the most important person in his life, anymore, and having Draco start slashing everyone around him with verbal whippings and screaming matches didn't seem like the best way to spend the night if the night could have prevented it from doing such and given Draco more time to calm down.

A couple of wizards started insisting that they not move, that they turn around and tell them what had happened.

Draco turned around, finally. His eyes fixed on Harry. He shrugged his shoulders up and sunk his hands into his pajama-pants pockets. Harry's eyes were so very protective, so very hesitant. It was a good feeling, that Harry was just as concerned about Draco as Draco was concerned about himself. This made Draco laugh, quietly, and he gave Harry a sheepish, embarrassed grin, ashamed of his temper. The members of the Order wanted information, and he knew that they should have had it—but, could Draco control himself? Perhaps, "I'm okay."

Harry looked, hesitantly, back at the lot of adults in the not-so-far distance, "Just concentrate on what they ask."

Draco squinted, staring at Harry's cheek, "Lucius and Dumbledore undoubtedly know. Maybe Lupin, too."

Harry examined Dumbledore, carefully, who was watching between them with curious eyes, "You're right."

Draco sighed. He put aside the idea of sleep, of rest and peaceful nothingness, for the night. He backed away from Harry a bit and motioned his head back to the group of adults. In the very front was his father and mother—Lucius and Narcissa, and his mother was so tightly clinging to his father's arm, and Lucius looked just so smitten with her—so much more smitten than Draco had seen him in years. For a second, he was stunned, and then awed, and then he felt something that resembled a twinge of happiness spark inside him. He started for them, and he saw that Harry was trailing him in the mirror, but his eyes were taking in the house they were in—it was a look of love and peace. It might have also been the reason why Harry had been so quiet, and not just by way of his voice. He seemed different, there, in the house. It was, after all, his house. It was where he had spent most of his free time in the last two years, that Draco had known about, and Harry had told him so.

A few minutes later, the group moved into a room. The center of the room was a very long, elegant, dark table, and around it were matching chairs, and on the table were piles of notes and notebooks, in front of each chair-space, along with cups and random wrappers for things—like chocolate. There were even a few empty Butterbeer bottles lingering, and two cups of still-steaming coffee sat in front of two of the seven empty, clean spaces at the table. The group took their seats, each one claiming a chair that already belonged to their possessions.

Harry sat down next to Draco and glanced at him, "Nice place."

Draco couldn't help but give a small smile, feeling for Harry, "You know, I'll own it in about seven hours."

Harry chuckled. He looked down at his hands, on the table. They were folded, and they only wanted to be. He was very tired. He really hadn't had very much sleep in the prior nights, and that very night before had just been restless and annoying. He lifted his eyes and found that Cornwell was staring, deeply, at Draco, across from him, resigned in his seat and his posture. He seemed very put off by Draco's reluctance to look at him, or even acknowledge him. His fingers were tapping, distractedly, on the table, but he did not pull his eyes from Draco.

"There's something you should probably know before they tell you what happened."

Draco's eyes lifted from the tabletop, and he felt his heart grow very warm at the sound of Lucius's voice—of Lucius, in general.

Lucius was, however, looking at Dumbledore.

Naturally, Draco did, too.

But, Harry's eyes slanted between Lucius and Cornwell. Lucius was _directly_ avoiding looking at Cornwell.

"I love my son very much, Dumbledore."

Draco's heart glowed, and he looked at Harry.

Harry, amused, looked back at the impressed young-man next to him, but then back to Lucius, as Draco did.

"What'd you do, Malfoy?" Spat a random Order member, who apparently did not like having to listen to Lucius speak.

Lucius's expression flickered from genuine sincerity to extreme distaste. He looked the man over, simply, sneered as if it were nothing, in front of the entire table, and then looked back at Dumbledore. But, he looked to Cornwell, and then Draco, and then back to Dumbledore, with a very hesitant sigh of displeasure for having to admit what he did, "I brought them into dream-state with me."

Draco's stomach felt like it had been punched. Lucius hadn't been_ supposed_ to do that?

The admission brought about silence in the room.

Harry looked at Dumbledore, who simply looked at Cornwell. Harry's eyes followed.

Cornwell had stopped tapping his fingertips. He was, instead, staring across the table at Draco. But, he didn't seem to realize he was staring at Draco. He lifted his chin, sat straight up in his chair and leaned over the table and in toward Lucius's direction. He jaw clenched, noticeably, his teeth clenched together, and he whispered, rather than spoke, "You did _what_?"

Draco and Harry exchanged glances.

Lucius's eyes moved from Dumbledore to Cornwell, and they stuck, hard, "I took my _son_ into dream-state with _me_."

The words seemed to infuriate Cornwell, and when Draco saw, he felt a rip in his stomach—it was something he had never felt before. He had never heard Cornwell and Lucius fight over him. He had known they argued about Draco's life choices, especially in the year before Cornwell had left, but they had never argued over the "my son" part in front of Draco, and Draco began to wonder if they ever had, before that moment. To anyone else listening, aside from Harry, Cornwell, Lucius and his mother, no one knew what the underlying message to Cornwell was.

Cornwell looked at Draco, blankly, and then back to Lucius, "You took your son into dream-state, Lucius?"

"Yes, and, apparently, I'm the only one of you who has the girth enough to tell him what he needs to know."

"Lucius, _we_ don't even know what it is that he needs to know," Dumbledore spoke, very deeply and seriously, across the table.

Draco spewed hot air out from between his lips. He looked at Harry, who wasn't even paying attention. Really, it was amazing. Harry's attention seemed to be a million miles away, and those miles away was where his thoughts were, because they certainly weren't in the room. He was probably following the conversation, but didn't seem to be putting much thought into what anyone was saying. Annoyed with everyone, Draco spoke up, "Look, it's not what _I_ need to know about anything. That's not what the issue is. It's what our friend-in-disguise needs to know." Meaning Harry, of course. His eyes flickered from Dumbledore to Cornwell to Lucius, and then back to Dumbledore. "I don't know why you've held back from him what you have, and, frankly, I don't know why he's not the angry one, but it makes me angry, because if you'd have told him what you ALL knew—an important PIECE of his life—of his parent's life, you might have spared him all of the SHIT he didn't need to go through."

Harry looked up at the ceiling, innocently, and then back to Draco.

The room was silent, once more.

Draco looked at Cornwell, "If my father hadn't taken us, I never would have learned about you what I have."

Cornwell's eyes narrowed at Draco, "What are you talking about? What, _exactly_, is it that you have learned about me, Draco?"

"Naturally, nothing. I know as little about you, now, as I ever have."

Cornwell sat back, silently, and looked at Lucius.

Though Cornwell expertly tried to cover up his reaction, Harry could see that Cornwell was furious beneath his mask of coolness. He was hurt. He was angered. He even did something with his mouth that Harry decided he had seen Draco do, before, when attempting to silence the splurge of information he shouldn't have. He turned his eyes away from Draco, and set them, like a fire, burning in the path of Lucius, who looked as hesitant as Harry had ever seen him look—which was never, "What did he _hear_, Lucius?"

"Why don't you just ask me what I've heard? You threw me into a destiny, didn't you, Cornwell? Treat me with a little more respect, would you?" Draco snapped, and, this time, he didn't go to look away when Cornwell's eyes cautiously settled back upon his own. But, Cornwell was not expressive with emotion. His face did not waver. He did not hide a thing, nor did he share a thing. He appeared very indifferent as to where Draco was concerned—but, he had appeared somewhat alarmed when Draco had muttered the word "destiny" at him. "Lucius is the only person who has ever told me the truth—even the not so nice truths. But, you, you just lied and threw me away, and then I come to realize that you, too, are buddies with Voldemort, just like my father! I mean, it's bloody fitting, isn't it? You and Voldemort."

"Draco, don't," Lucius responded, before Draco could continue. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Draco just stared Cornwell down, "You must have had _quite_ the relationship with him, Cornwell."

"What did you just say to me?"

Harry felt the blood rush out of his cheeks.

Cornwell had shoved a binder at Draco, hard, and it had collided with Draco's arms, so Draco jumped. But, he didn't step down, even as Cornwell pushed his chair back and stood up from his seat, with his eyebrows hooded, furiously, over his passionately, emotionally bleeding, lethal brown eyes. Draco, too, stood up, pushing his own chair back, furious over Cornwell pushing a binder at him, as if Draco had done something wrong, when Cornwell had been doing things wrong, to Draco, since before he was born! He clenched his fists, "I listened to him talk about you, you know. He sounded very pouty—didn't he, _Judas_?"

Harry opened his mouth, but it never closed.

Cornwell looked at Harry, and then at Draco, "Fine, Draco. Lord Voldemort and I have a past. A very volatile past."

Draco laughed, in disbelief, "Do you understand what you've done?" He nearly whispered, not even being able to fathom where the minds of the adults were, in the room. He knew perfectly well that Cornwell had hidden whatever he had for a reason, and he was a smart man, so he hadn't gone into keeping his identity silent without having given it obvious thought. And, sure, Cornwell had just blurted something out, just to do it, as if Draco would have been interested in hearing an admission rather than a denial or explanation. He stepped backward, resigning with a frustrated sigh. He was too tired to be dealing with Cornwell, right then. He should have listened to Harry. He should have just gone to sleep. He clasped his hands over the top of his head. "Whatever it is that you are, that you've never told me, has ended up writing out my life—_and _Potter's life. If you'd had told him—if _any of you had told him_—what Cornwell was—or is—or appears to have been—you could have _saved_ his _life_. You could have spared me for what Voldemort wants from me. But, no, and why? _Why_?" He asked it, like it was a real question. Because, it was.

Draco saw the other adults look at each other, but Cornwell simply looked down, his thick, dark hair falling over his eyes and forehead, preventing Draco from examining the somewhat familiar features to his own.

"I just don't understand how any of you could withhold that sort of information. He wasn't a bloody toy, you know—he wasn't your bloody weapon. And, now, you throw us together, with one of us already dead, and you continue to not give us answers? Not even _one_ answer? As to who Cornwell Black is? As to who charmed James Potter? As to who was James Potter's best friend? As to who Cornwell Black is to Voldemort? As to why Voldemort wants his grimy, bony fingers on me, because I have the blood of this man named Cornwell Black? I _deserve_ an answer, Cornwell, if all else, because I am your _son_," Draco breathed, completely discombobulated. He pointed at Harry, helplessly, who had pushed his chair back and was standing up and walking toward the doors—it was clear he wasn't interested in dealing with anything more, that night. "And, that is Harry _fucking_ Potter, who you all owe one astronomical fucking APOLOGY to, because most of you lot, of whom are carefully called regal and of the thinking, intellectual mind, have single-handedly _murdered_ him by withholding information."

Liquid seeped out of silent, gaping mouths all over the table and the room.

Harry, at the door, just turned around and stared at Draco, not at all having been prepared. He paused, "I'm Judas Cliffdale."

"No, you're Harry Potter, in Judas Cliffdale's fucking body."

Harry blew a warm breath out of his lips and then pressed them together, clutching the doorknob, "I'm going to sleep."

"Yeah, good luck with that, Harry."

Harry watched Draco turn and exit a different door, with a slam. When he was gone, everyone was still staring at Harry, blankly, with the exception of Lucius and Dumbledore, who were looking at each other. Cornwell was staring at Harry, and Harry gave him a very cold, decisive stare back. Truth was, he had never seen it as Draco apparently did. He didn't think anyone had murdered him. But, they had withheld information—information that would have put together the puzzle. They had withheld it for a reason. This reason was unfathomable, "You know, I grew up really not caring for Draco. But, going by tonight, I can see how screwed up you are—twisted, for not thinking twice about telling me who you are—were—to the fight, and even to my father—and I wonder how screwed up I'd have been if my father were anything like you."

Rude and harsh, fine, but not uncalled for.

Cornwell turned his face away, completely, and pressed his nose into his shoulder.

"If I would have just died regularly, I would probably be with him right now."

_If_ was such a heartbreaking word.

"Of course, nothing could be as simple as that. No. Your lack of information—really, I don't see any reason you could have withheld that IMPORTANT of a piece—to me, has brought me back in a different body—and, I didn't ask to be brought back. You brought me back without my permission, and here I am, again, trying to figure out how to bring Voldemort down, and I come to find out that you _are_ the missing piece, Cornwell Black. And, I asked myself why no one had ever even told me about you, when everyone knew you were a dear friend of my father's. I still couldn't find an answer. I still can't. But, I'm not going to ask you for your answer, now. I'm going to go fall asleep—or try—if something else doesn't happen to me on the way up to my room, and, if by tomorrow morning, no one has told me who Cornwell Black is—or what he is—or what it has to do with Draco or Judas—I will take Draco with me, we will find Voldemort, and I will pledge myself, as Judas Cliffdale, to Voldemort, because, after all, I am no longer Harry Potter."

Dumbledore had finally turned around to him and begun to stare, as if he did not know Harry at all.

Cornwell had stood up, he, too, was just watching Harry, his mouth buried in his right hand. His gaze at Harry seemed far more progressive and in-depth than anyone else's, including Dumbledore's. Cornwell was the one person who could deliver the answers, directly, to Harry. He was the one who Harry wanted to hear it from, and they both knew it.

"I _am_ Judas Cliffdale, with Harry Potter's powers—powers more powerful than Voldemort's, and any other nameless, faceless wizard. Harry Potter is already dead, and Voldemort already fulfilled his prophecy. My duties to my parents have far outweighed the benefits of anything in my life, seeing as how it got me killed. I see no reason to stay on the side of those who purposefully deny me and refuse to offer up information that is—_was_—essential to my life, to my fight. And, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Voldemort's stands, while harsh in action, are not so misplaced. What's a world without Harry Potter? It's just a world. What's the magical world without Harry Potter? Oh, it's not the same world. What's a world without muggles? It's no world. But, what's the _magical_ world without muggles?" He paused, leaned forward, with a cruel grin, at Dumbledore, and then at Cornwell. "A _perfect_, magical world."

Dumbledore began to stand, and Harry had never seen or heard him so perturbed and insistent, "Harry—"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I am not Harry to you, anymore, my dear sir. Please, call me Judas, as you've made me."

This response received nothing from the room full of intelligent adults.

"Do not treat me like I am a child. My powers, at seventeen, far exceed the power in this room. It's true that I don't even know my own power, or how to use it, but I know it's there. This is the battle of MY life—not just the battle to get rid of Voldemort. It's not about the blood of wizards, anymore. It's about the fact that Harry Potter is dead, Voldemort has won, and there is a mix-matched human named Judas Cliffdale who will wait in the balance and decide who to side with." Naturally, he was only saying these things to shake them up, and he did it rather well. "I expect to be treated far better than I am—in fact, I am so powerful and so important to this fight, that the next person who pisses me off is going to get a nice tour of my foot in their arse—and, this is my house, by the way, and I'd appreciate it if you'd use saucers for your cups. That table is very old, and I don't want to see it ruined by cup rings."

Harry opened the double doors that were behind him and walked out through the center.

Draco stood, awkwardly, in front of Harry. He had been listening, in awe, the whole time, "Nicely done. I must say, it was a little dramatic, what, with you pretending you could ever pledge yourself to Voldemort, but I definitely bought it. I especially liked the part about telling Dumbledore to call you Judas, _as you've made me_—it was a nice touch."

Harry grinned at him, as Draco led him away from the doors and down a hallway. As soon as they were a good ten feet away from the doors, Harry jumped in front of Draco, enthralled with the whole entire night, "I think I scared myself a bit, Malfoy. I was spewing all of this stuff about not knowing which side to choose—and Voldemort's stances not being so off, and I think I began to believe it!" He gave a chomp down onto his bottom lip, as Draco laughed at him with enflamed, bright gray eyes. A second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, so he glanced down at it. But, then it wrapped around Harry's shoulders, and Harry choked on his breath.

Draco tilted his head, "Does being evil turn you on, Harry? Harry Potter? HARRY POTTER!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh at Draco's happy, excited exclamation into the hallways, "No. Like any other normal human being with a heart and conscience, I feel horrible."

Draco dropped his arm and followed Harry toward the stairs. He turned serious. He softened himself as best he could, and he found that he didn't have to try very hard, "You feel horrible?"

Harry sighed, his eyes feeling heavy with emotion. He just didn't know what to do with himself, anymore. He knew he could only trust Draco, truly. That was not a problem. The problem existed in the fact that he was supposed to bring Voldemort down to his knees—he was the one who had to do it—and the people around him, who he had always trusted, had HELD the ONLY information back from Harry that could have helped him fight. It hurt. It hurt so bad that it burned. He wished he had his parents there. He wished he hadn't been him. He wished he had been a normal, wizard child, whose parents sent him off to school and adored him when he was home. He wanted that so badly. He wanted a father-figure in his life. He wanted SOMEONE in his life. He was so empty, inside, and it was so much more empty than it had ever been.

Harry sat down on the fifth stair from the bottom, "I shouldn't have scolded Cornwell. I don't even know him. He's not stupid. There must be a reason he never told... well... it's not really his fault, is it? I am truly angry with Dumbledore, though. He should have told me about Cornwell." He sighed with a pause, his forehead wrinkling so intensely that it hurt. "I just don't understand what I did to deserve this life—I don't. I don't, Draco. Tell me, Draco, what did I do? Why am I sitting on this step, in a different body, defying the laws of physics, wanting nothing more to go to the top of the roof and throw myself off of it? I do. I really, really want to."

Draco sat down beside him, "Harry," he murmured, and he lifted his right arm from resting on his thigh. He moved it back behind Harry, as he slouched over and buried his face into hands. It was a very real, raw moment. Draco hadn't ever seen Harry like he was, at that very second, crying into his hands and talking in such a barely-there way. He stayed audible, which just made Draco realize that Harry was at the point where he was so crushed, ruined and confused that he knew it was pointless to cry hysterically—which meant he was crying out of hopelessness. He rubbed his hand over Harry's upper back, and leaned down to Harry's shoulder, too. "Harry, I tell you I love you—teasingly—but... I really do. I love you like a best friend—you are my best friend—my only, and first, ever, best _anything_. Because you are the best of everything, to me. Your... your life has been more difficult than I could even begin to imagine, but you're still here for a reason. It hasn't a thing to do with Dumbledore and his physics-plays or his risky potions and spells. You know you want to bring Voldemort down, Harry, because it will feel good—and, when it's all done with, you're still going to be the same person."

Harry gave a sad moan into his hands, as he cried, "Great, an empty, lonely, bitter—"

"No, Harry. Your life will change, eventually, but I'll be with you, whether that matters or not. I'm not going to let you feel this lonely forever. I know nothing can fill up the holes in your heart, I do, and I know you don't think you'll ever feel happy, but you will feel happy, again. When Voldemort is gone, and Hogwarts is over, you're going to have your whole life ahead of you, and if you don't want to be the Harry Potter that the world sees, because people will treat you differently, there are plenty of things you can do for the world to see you as someone else—but, I'll still see you as you, Harry, because I already do see you, even though you're someone else." He rubbed the back of Harry's neck with his thumb, gently, looking down the tear-stained cheek not far from his own. "Besides, I'm sure you'll find a wife—a loving one—and, you'll have lots of little ones to run around and distract you. You can bring them over, and they can play with my cats."

Harry coughed, through his cries, a surprised hiccup of a laugh.

Draco smiled and pressed his nose against the back of Harry's shoulder. God, he smelled good, "You're going to be all right, Potter."

"Sorry," Harry cried, into his hands, again, about everything.

Draco rubbed down Harry's back, gently, in circular motions, taking his time, "Come on, Potter. It has been a very dramatic day—one I'd like to forget, and soon. We should go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

Harry lifted his face from his open, comforting palms, "I don't feel like me, anymore, Malfoy, and it kills me."

"There is_ no_ way you _could_ feel like you used to after everything that has happened. You'll adjust, I swear."

"I won't adjust. I'm not good," he cried, distraught and helpless, downhearted, "at adjusting."

Draco pushed himself up and stepped down to the step below Harry's feet. His hands reached out and grasped gentle holds over Harry's shoulders. He paced them, and Harry dropped his hands from his face. He looked up, a truly hopeless, depressed, finally broken mess. Draco knew it wasn't something that would clear up with one well-rested night of sleep, but he did know that, eventually, it would clear up and things would brighten for Harry, "Come on, Potter. Show me around your place."

Harry stood, with Draco's help, and then looked down into the serious, light eyes, standing on the step above Draco's, still sniffling.

Draco managed a reassuring, easy smile, "Long day, huh?"

Harry could only nod. Heartbroken and feeling weak, he led Draco up the stairs and into a bedroom.

As Harry collapsed down, heavily, over a made bed, in the pitch-black darkness, he muttered, "Want to take a guess on what time it is?"

Draco joined him, and crossed his right ankle over his left. He closed his eyes, "Dear God, no. This has been the never-ending day from hell. To think, the last couple of weeks had been so calm and nothing had happened, and I was beginning to feel like everything was going to stay that way. Yesterday was long enough, and then tonight rolled around, and the day decided to extend itself another couple thousand hours."

"I'd toast to that, Malfoy, had we some coffee—or Firewhiskey."

"I would toast to a lot of things if we had coffee, and even more things if we had Firewhiskey, but I'm too angry for alcohol and toasting, and even more angry to say things I'd definitely regret in the morning, as I'm already trying to block out my strange love for you."

Harry laughed a splitting, drunkenly drowsy laugh.

After a couple of minutes had passed, Harry frowned, "You shouldn't have been so hard on him."

Draco, whose face was buried into a cool pillow, only grumbled, "I know."

"I can't wait to have a good night's sleep."

"Stop anticipating it and make it happen, then, Potter. Harry Potter. Harry Potter, who is mine and of like mind."

When Harry rolled over in his bed, the next time, it was still dark outside the windows, and he blearily opened one brown eye. He had to adjust to the bright light of candles that were flooding the room. Everything was foreign, at first, until he recognized the woodwork on the headboard. It had caught his attention more than once when he had stayed in the estate home before.

The events of the prior night flooded in front of his open eyes, so he closed them, in attempt to escape, but it just made them more prominent. He hadn't had a good night's rest in God knew how long. Every time he woke up, he was overcome with pressure and what-felt-like a physical paperweight resting over his chest. He was sad that he had been growing accustomed to that feeling, "You woke me up, Malfoy."

Draco sat up on his elbows, sleepily. He had done no such thing! Had they woken at the same time? Perhaps. When he had opened his eyes, for the first time, he had breathed a sigh of relief. He had taken part in a dreamless, dream-state-less, non-dramatic sleep. It had been wonderful to wake up to something less than a frightened rage. No sooner had he closed his mouth from yawning had Harry opened his eyes, too, "Hardly. You woke up when I did."

Harry dropped the left side of his face down onto the pillow. He carefully opened his eyes and studied Draco, rather than the rest of the room. He looked oddly peaceful and complacent, as he dropped himself back into the pillows and dropped his long, magnificent hands over his palely glowing face, "I have a question for you."

"Good, more questions," he gruffly spoke, into his hands.

Harry ignored the snidely pointed comment. It was very clear that Draco had woke up in a mood similar to his own. He seemed to begin to tense up, and his sense of serenity seemed to be leaving him. Not tired, and feeling startlingly refreshed, Harry pushed himself up on his left side, his elbow holding his upper body weight, "Why is it dark in here?"

Draco looked around, and, for the first time, he noticed that outside the windows, it was pitch black, "It's nighttime."

Harry rested onto his back, "We slept all day?"

"Apparently."

Their voices were hardly warm, hardly friendly. They were hard, and raw, and very disconcerted for separate reasons.

"We were supposed to go to Gringotts, today," Harry muttered, and he pushed himself right up. They had fallen asleep on the bed, the night before, over the covers. But, there were two blankets strewn over their bodies. The blankets were rather lumpy and extremely warm, which Harry suddenly found to annoy him when he was feeling so hot-headed. He pulled his knees up and pushed the blankets off, over them, at the same time. He turned and tumbled off of the four-foot-high bed. He walked around the end of the bed and to the door, patting his pocket to make sure his wand was still there, and it was. "Might as well get this over with. Come on."

Draco stared at him, blankly, at first, "We're going somewhere." Downstairs. Obviously. And, so quickly? _Brave_.

Harry didn't look at him, just opened the door. Yes, he was going somewhere. He was going to run downstairs and see who was there, and he was going to demand answers. He was tired of waiting. The sleep had done him well, but waking up just made him realized how much time he had missed when he could have been getting answers. Plus, he was well-refreshed. He took his time on the shiny, cold wooden floors of the upstairs. He walked down the steps, into the empty entry hallway, and then turned down the hallway to get to the kitchen.

When he stood in the doorway, his eyes came in contact with an entire table of silent, eating wizards. He just stared, at first. No one was talking. The only sound in the room was the clinging and clacking of forks and knives onto plate. His eyes shifted to their food, and his attention diverted, completely. God, his stomach growled like it hadn't had food to eat in decades. It became so loud that he was surprised no one jumped and turned around to see who the monster was in the door-frame. But, he felt incredibly awkward as he stood there, unbeknownst to the damper wizards—all of them! He just...!

They all just looked so tense.

Upon further inspection, Harry's eyes began to trace the familiar faces in the room. First his eyes landed on Narcissa, who was sitting, silently, next to Dickie, staring down at her plate. It seemed that she didn't even realize there was food on it. Dickie, beside her, was the only animated being in the kitchen, as he was playing with a colorful baby-spoon—it was green and gray, and for a second, Harry felt appalled that someone had bought him a Slytherin-themed spoon, but then his bewilderment turned to amusement.

Narcissa looked very blank.

Harry's eyes shifted to Remus, and he felt a thud at his heart. He was hunched over his plate, with one arm somewhat clenched around it. With his free hand, he was separating the foods on his plate, and as he stabbed something—a green vegetable—he lifted it to his eyes and stared at it, as if in great, deep thought, before he put it in his mouth. His face, which had never been completely aglow with youth, such as Cornwell's had, had become even more gaunt and flawed. Around his eyes were deep, dark bags, and his demeanor seemed to suggest that he hadn't slept—in fact, one entire side of the table—the people who had been there, the night before, all looked as if they had not had sleep.

The other side of the table was a group of wizards that Harry had never seen, before. They seemed timid to speak.

Harry was very hesitant with himself, with his emotions and feelings, as he allowed his eyes to drift to the furthest left side of the table. The figure was merely sitting. The frame was not moving. He was not eating. There was nothing on his plate, but there was a large glass of bubbling Firewhiskey sitting over it. In front of his plate, an entire bottle of Firewhiskey, which Harry knew would be gone with a few extra sips from the bottle, sat.. There wasn't even enough left to make a full glass. And, at this man's presence, Harry did not know what to do or what to feel.

Harry didn't know how to regard anything about Cornwell Black.

However, his eyes could not pass over the face of the man. His entire structure was slouched into his chair, and his wrists were simply resting on the edges of the long, wooden kitchen table. The work of art that Harry had registered Cornwell's face as, previously, had faded away into nothing more remarkable than a nearly identical resemblance to Draco—just older and more ragged. His tanned skin was no longer tinted. It was pale—pale, as in Draco-pale, which was a remarkable change from the night before. His eyes were surrounded in red, rather than black, sleepless patches that would have matched the other states at the table. His beard was growing in, as well, so he was very scruffy all around his jaw, which created an astonishing contrast to his skin and imbedded, into his brain, more than ever, the chiseled cheekbones that Cornwell black possessed—cheekbones which Draco had gotten from him—Draco...

Harry heard footsteps behind him, but he never turned around, just stepped aside.

Draco walked into the kitchen, silently, and walked to the refrigerator. He glanced at Harry, in the door-frame, "Thirsty?"

The question provoked the shock and clattering dishes of startled Order members from around the room.

Harry placed his hand over the back of his neck, watching the reaction. Everyone immediately turned and looked at Draco—except Cornwell. But, Draco kept his back turned to everyone, and Harry couldn't help but feel awed by Draco's ease of ability to ignore everyone in the room at his own will. He pulled a carton of something of the cooler-box and placed it on a counter. As he did so, Harry saw everyone searching for something to say to Draco. They were looking at each other, but they were speechless.

Draco began opening the dark, wooden cabinets, looking for glasses. After the third, he turned around to the table, and acknowledged them all, at last. He looked at his mother, only, who seemed to be just as stunned as everyone else. It seemed that she didn't know what to say, and, if she did, she knew better than to corner him in front of people he didn't even know. Immediately, the warm, motherly, loving smile that he had grown up seeing, spread across her pretty face, as if to reassure him and tell him that she was glad he was awake. He could not have forced himself to smile even if he had been cursed to, at wand-point.

"Third cabinet from over the sink," she instructed, softly.

Draco glanced over at the door-frame, for Harry, as he grabbed two cups down from the cabinet. He didn't know what to say. Once Harry had left the bedroom, Draco had begrudgingly followed. He had wanted to give himself time before confronting the challenges that were ahead of him, that day—or night, or whatever the hell time it was. Harry, on the other hand, had been determined to get to the bottom of everything as soon as he had woken up. Except, there, in the kitchen, it was Harry who was lingering, and Draco who had burst through the kitchen, to break the awkwardness, "Are you thirsty?"

Harry held in his breath.

The attention of the room switched from Draco to Harry, who everyone had to turn, in the opposite direction, to see. Immediately, the Order members, from the night before, who knew who he was, stopped chewing, and some left their mouths wide open. He looked down at the floor, rubbing his socked toe there, shyly. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't realized how much he had wanted to keep his identity secret until that moment. It was horrible—the way they were staring at him. Granted, yes, they had every reason to look as if they were seeing a ghost.

Though, the other half of the table seemed completely clueless.

There was a small sob at the table.

And, before Harry knew it, Remus had pushed his chair back and thrown his napkin down onto his plate. He hurried around the table, and Harry felt himself look even further down into the floor, helpless. He could feel the emotion welling at the base of his throat, and he wished that he could have been invisible, just for a while longer—but, before his eyes could truly settle their intensity to the floor, a pair of arms had tightly engulfed him, in a way that no pair of arms had ever embraced him, before. He didn't have to question it, nor did he have to question the sob that entered the side of his head, against his hair. He did what was only natural, and he clutched his fingers into the robes of the only man, left in the world, who he was closest to. He rested his cheek, roughly, on the equally tall shoulder, squeezed his eyes together and dropped his entire face until it disappeared—and, he cried.

Where it came from, the sudden sob of emotion, of something igniting of pain within him, he didn't think he would ever fully grasp.

But, suddenly, Remus withdrew, harshly, and he grasped his large hands around Harry's upper arms, as hard as he could, and he paced himself about a foot from Harry, bent down about an inch so he was directly level with Harry. Harry had never felt so separated or heart-broken, than he did at that moment, having had a foot of space forced between them. He didn't want space. He wanted Remus to hug him, again, and squeeze the mother-fucking life out of him to make sure he was real—and, he was! He was real! And, he was Harry Potter—and, that was Remus Lupin—and... and... and he was Harry, again, and he felt like Harry, again, and he wanted to feel like Harry, forever.

Never did he ever want to leave that very moment, within himself.

The kitchen was silent.

Remus then clutched Harry's face between his palms, just as hard, and he roughly kissed Harry's forehead, before peering into his eyes, again, and announcing, "God," before releasing the hard restriction his arms were holding, and Harry was pulled into Remus rather than being embraced. He took it, and he clutched his arms around the older man, who had been through everything with Harry the previous years two years. After Sirius had died... things had just taken a turn for the worst, and the only person that Harry had turned to, when the world had him down, was Remus Lupin. And, Draco—in a way that took his mind off of the sad things. And, Ron—who took his mind off of the Draco-things. But, Remus in a fatherly way. They had grown more close than they ever had been, and Harry had tried his hardest, from the moment he had woken up in Judas Cliffdale's body, to ignore the fact that he was going to be lying to Remus and causing Remus, probably, more pain than anyone else.

Remus squeezed him and pulled his face back, a bit, "I can't... when you said... I mean, when Draco said—"

Harry, at the mention of Draco, turned his large, expressive brown eyes from the brown eyes he had been staring into. He had been mentally apologizing, and he hadn't been able to stop. A great deal of weight felt as if it had been lifted off of his shoulders. People knew, now. These were the people who were most important to Harry, and they knew. Sure, he was angry, a little, with some of them, but he knew he would, hopefully, eventually, be given good enough answers that he could have easily forgiven them.

Draco was standing against the counter, with a smirk.

Harry smirked back, "Malfoy, you're looking sexy, as always. What's that hair-style called? Sex romp?"

Draco tried to look appalled, but he only succeeded in laughing. Instead of beginning to smooth down his hair, as he might have done, at any other time on any other day, even if he was on his death-bed, he stepped away from the counter and slid his hands up over his chest and then back behind his neck. He latched is fingers there, stretching out as blatantly as he could, grinning shamelessly at the brunette who was taking every ounce of joy at his reunion with their old professor.

Draco knew that Lupin was like a father-figure to Harry, and meant the world to him. Draco, himself, had wanted nothing more than to see Harry grin, in the way he currently was grinning, since day one. It was almost as if Harry Potter, himself, was in the kitchen with him. It was like an explosion of green eyes and vulnerability and everything meshing together, "Yeah, you running your fingers through it while we had wild, passionate sex last night really gave it that extra bounce." He tossed his hair. "I call this hot-orgasm."

Harry distinctly heard someone choke on something, but he couldn't stop his laugh, as Remus let him go, but hesitantly. Harry just gave him a nod, before he turned to Draco and began taking tiny steps toward him. Draco's grin grew wider and wider, and Harry had to stop himself to truly appreciate it. He squinted, feeling his cheeks hurting. They were in a room with people who knew that Harry was Harry, which meant that people were seeing himself and Draco interact for the first time. It was, after all, somewhat of a legendary relationship.

Draco relaxed his arms behind him, as Harry stopped in front of him.

"You had sex with _yourself_, last night, Malfoy. Must have been _some_ orgasm for your hair to have gotten to that state."

Draco leaned his face in, two inches, grinning childishly, "You heard that, huh?" He joked.

Harry leaned his face in, too, pointedly, "Oh, I was _definitely_ listening." He paused.

The two just stared at each other.

Harry blinked at him and whispered, "_What are we doing_? Your parents are listening."

Draco snorted with hysterical laughter, and he stretched his arms up over his head, "You're fucking asking me?" He had been asking himself the same exact question in his mind. He looked over at the table of adults, rather quickly, not wanting to make eye-contact with anyone. He just wanted everyone to know that Harry was Harry, so he could go ahead and start calling him Potter, but he knew he could do no such thing. It was not appropriate for anyone else to know that Harry was actually Judas. Everyone who needed to know already knew.

Draco dropped his hands down to Harry's shoulders, simply, and looked him in the eyes, seriously. They were such lovely, emotional eyes. When he had heard Harry begin to cry, into Lupin, something had happened inside of him. It felt good. It was good to watch Harry have interaction with someone else who knew who he was—someone so important to him. It had changed something about who Harry had become. No longer was he brooding, throne-like or distracted. He was bright, with glowing cheeks and sexy body-language, ready for a go at Draco, even though there was nothing verbal that they needed to battle, "No, but, really, did you sleep well?"

Harry nodded, as the next step of Draco's intention began to unfold. He appreciated it, "Yeah, did you?"

Draco nodded. He moved closer, and in the most non-awkward motion he had ever initiated with Potter, he draped his right arm over Harry's left shoulder, and let it drop down his back. He gave Harry a slight hug—it was boyish, friendly—and it suggested nothing other than it was to anyone else watching. He couldn't help it, damnit! He had emotions! He had feelings! He had to show affections to his Harry Potter when his Harry Potter was feeling the need for it, "Honestly, Cliffdale, you're beaming. Then, again," he sighed, loudly, as he pulled back from the friendly tap of palms to backs, "I shouldn't be surprised that you light up after hugging men."

Harry only smiled at him. He did it silently, with glittering eyes, and finished it with announcing nothing in defiance.

Draco felt a warmth creep up his cheeks. He turned away, "It was a moment—be glad I didn't _kiss_ you."

"You'd rather the kiss, naturally."

Draco threw his middle finger up over his right shoulder, "Fuck you, and your damn lightening bolt."

Harry sputtered with laughter, as he joined Draco at the sink, their backs turned, "I love you, Malfoy."

Draco grinned to himself, staring down at the white, porcelain sink. He whispered back, "I think you're falling for me."

Harry leaned in to his cheek, with a smirk, "I don't know about that, but I _would_ snog you—without being drunk."

Draco laughed with amusement and intrigue, silently, just shaking his head, "Don't, Potter, in case they don't see our twisted relationship."

Harry looked over his shoulder, but then immediately blushed and turned his face straight, again, "Uh, Malfoy?"

Draco rubbed his hands together, staring out the window, "What?"

"I think they get it."

Draco glanced over his shoulder, to see that most everyone was snickering into their fists. He just gave everyone a smile, as if to say thank-you for watching and enjoying the show. But, it was no show. He looked back at Harry, with more serious eyes. He had seen Harry look at Cornwell, and then back at him with something that resembled hesitance. And, Draco knew exactly what the message was that Harry had been trying to relay. The first person Draco had looked at, that morning, was Cornwell. He looked like hell—miserable, and he was the only one not laughing, smiling, or even, apparently, expressing any sort of emotion. He hadn't even looked at Draco, not once, and Draco had been staring in reflective surfaces, all around the kitchen, in attempt to see if Cornwell would have been brave enough to do so. But, he hadn't, and it was making Draco feel horrid. He looked down at his hands, as he clutched them around the edge of the counter.

Harry stepped backward, with a yawn, and gave the back of Draco's shin a light kick, "I'm glad we're safe, though."

Draco turned around, too, bravely. He rested back against the counter, watching Harry. He was examining something on the wall, now. It must have been something he had already seen, in his life, in the house, and not something new, because his fingers were tracing over it in an adoring matter. But, Harry looked back at him and stepped away from it, "I can't say I missed Voldemort."

"I don't know," Harry quietly responded, as they talked, but only to each other, by the sink, again. "I miss him a little."

Draco just half-smiled. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep warm in the cold kitchen. He raised his eyebrows.

Harry saw it, and then defended himself. He forced a face, though, and took in a deep gasp. He saw a flicker of genuine confusion and worry cross over Draco's usually controlled features, "Lucius, _what have you done to your hair_?" He clutched his hand over his heart, as he rested against the counter, jokingly, and began to hunch over, staring up at Draco as he did so.

Draco immediately snorted with loud, genuine laughter, which was exactly what Harry had been after. They had been putting on a show, as soon as they had started talking, just to make things less awkward for everyone around them. But, it was easy to truly tune everyone else out when they were separated a few feet from everyone else. "I'm dying, Lucius. I _miss_ your hair."

Draco covered his mouth, his mouth wide open and his eyes scrunched into half-moons, "Spot on! Frightening!"

Harry laughed and stood straight back up, again, his focus intently on Draco's glinting, gray eyes, "Gringotts?"

Draco turned his head and looked over at the clock on the wall that he had seen when he had entered the room, earlier. It was a large kitchen, with tall ceilings. Everything was dark, shining wood and dark grays of stones that made up the walls. There were a few nicely-placed pieces of art on the walls of the kitchen, and even, he saw, some animated, black cookie-cutters that were propelled onto the wall to the right of a generous, unlit fireplace, "It's seven—they're open until ten on Tuesdays." He looked back at Harry.

Harry licked at the corner of his mouth, giving a heavy sigh and a serious, intense squint, "Should we go?" Or wait?

"I think we should," Draco murmured, as they turned so their backs were to everyone else, "just to get out."

"Draco, is it true? Are you really Cornwell's son?" Someone blurted out, out of no where, from the table.

Harry watched the side of Draco's face. Draco didn't flinch. He didn't appear apprehensive. He didn't appear to be at all irritated, either, by the question. He turned around, immediately, and Harry watched, with curious eyes. It wasn't like Draco was going to deny it. But, that Harry had noticed, Draco had been going to great lengths to avoid looking at anyone, directly. Least of all, Harry knew, a very devastated, drunk, red-eyed, intense, scruffy, messy Cornwell Black, who was dressed in the same attire as the night before, just with a long-sleeved black shirt on, even though it seemed a little big for his lean, toned, tall frame.

Draco nodded, simply, and lifted the glass of orange-juice, he had just filled, to his mouth.

Harry cleared his throat as he started for the door. He glanced at the full table of people, "Have a good dinner."

"Where are you going?"

Harry stopped, dead, in his tracks. He felt as if he could not move.

Cornwell had finally spoken.

Harry pulled his eyes from the floor, with all of his might. He felt as small as an insect that could fit into the hairline fracture cracks of the wooden kitchen floor. He felt horrible for the night before. He had been very rude to Cornwell, but it had been for good reason, and even though Harry still felt as if Cornwell had deserved to be given a lashing about having kept what he had from Draco—from him—he knew it wasn't even Cornwell's fault. Anyone else, in the world, could have told him about Cornwell, but no one had. He tried to clear his throat, but it only cracked when his eyes finally met up with Cornwell's face.

Harry's mouth closed.

Cornwell was staring at him, blankly, and his dark eyes were extremely condescending.

Harry felt like a child—no one ever made him feel like a child, anymore. It was... it was... almost... almost... He didn't know what it was, but he knew that he didn't like it. He didn't like being talked down to. Cornwell had made his tone very clear, and it was obvious as his eyes bore into Harry's, as if daring him to try and say anything like he had said the night before. Harry found his mind become furious with words, but the words calmed, somehow, and left his head, completely, when Cornwell's eyes narrowed at his own, for some sort of answer, "Why, I'm going to go purchase some Firewhiskey, as you've seemed to drink up _my_ stash."

The chattering in the room, which had never been very loud or too noticeable, silenced, once again.

"You're underage, you can't have Firewhiskey."

Harry seethed, openly.

"Go on, do it. Do something, if you're so angry. Go ahead, I dare you."

"You don't want to dare _me_, Cornwell," Harry assured, his voice low.

"I do want to dare you, but I know it's wise that I shouldn't—take Lucius's son with you, would you?"

Harry felt the blood rush out of his face, and he looked back at Draco.

Draco was all ice and stones. His gaze on Cornwell was very hard-core, very practiced. Very Draco _Malfoy_—he could hold his own against Cornwell's words.

Harry looked back at Cornwell, "Don't you mean _your_ son?"

Cornwell looked away, "I signed my son away a long time ago. Lucius has made that clear to me."

"You're a bastard," Harry declared, before he could stop himself, mentally reeling for Draco.

"And, you're a pain in my arse. If you bring Firewhiskey into this house, I will hex you."

'This is my house! Who do you think you are!" Harry's insides itched with overprotective desires... over _himself_.

Cornwell pushed his chair back and then stood up. He glanced at Harry, "I know _who_ I am."

Harry watched him, helplessly, "Speaking of which, don't you have something to tell us?"

"He won't tell the truth, anyway," Draco interjected the biting conversation, as he joined Harry. He glanced at Cornwell, taking a hold of Harry's elbow and moving him toward the door so they could leave. He had watched the whole conversation happen, with intent eyes. There was something about Cornwell that made Harry stop in his tracks. The way Cornwell spoke to Harry rang of something of the past, as if he had every right to ask Harry where he was going, and tell him that he couldn't purchase Firewhiskey and then bring it into a house that wasn't even his, but rather Harry's. And, Harry hadn't shouted about it, or questioned it, or even yelled about it. He hadn't fought against it. And, though he hadn't exactly taken it with open arms and blank eyes, it was clear that Harry saw something in Cornwell opposite of what Draco did. Sure, Cornwell was Draco's father, and that bond would never be broken, though, at the moment, it was rather bruised and swollen.

To Harry, Cornwell was the answer to his past, and that boggled Harry. Draco could feel it. He could see it. He _heard_ it.

"Why wouldn't I tell the truth?" Cornwell asked, as he placed his cloth napkin down on his plate, watching Draco.

Draco didn't look back at him, "You telling the whole truth about anything is a laugh. Trusting anything out of your mouth is like trusting something out of Voldemort's mouth."

A collective shudder began to run through the group, but it was quickly extinguished.

Cornwell had lifted the bottle of Firewhiskey and thrown it, with all of his might, at the floor in front of his son and Harry.

It shattered and everyone sort of screamed, shrieked or jumped, hurriedly, up from their seats, stunned and nervous.

Harry and Draco stared at Cornwell, gape-mouthed, shocked out of their socks and speechless, breathless.

Cornwell walked to Draco, grabbed his wrist, and hurled him out the kitchen door, all the while Draco just followed, without a word. He looked back at Harry, with honest hesitance, and the rest of the people in the kitchen, as he was taken through the dark hallway, at a rather hurried pace. His wrist was being tightly clutched, but it didn't hurt. He could feel the adrenaline and dread beginning to pump through his blood, veins and into his organs. He didn't know where he was being taken, but Cornwell was not happy with what had been said. The way he had just looked at Draco, after he had smashed the bottle, was still boggling Draco's mind, "What—let go—I am not a child—I demand you to—let go of me, Cornwell—you fucking—where are we going—thank-you!"

Draco rubbed his wrist when it was freed, his lips pinched together to alter the pain that his pride felt, because his wrist didn't physically hurt.

Cornwell closed the door to the room they had just entered. It was dim, "Ask me."


	15. A Prophecy? A Cure? An Answer

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Fifteen

A Prophecy? A Cure? An Answer.

Draco swallowed. His father was far gone—far, far, far gone. In place of him was a drunk man, whose guard was down. How much he had had to drink, Draco was unsure. He had seen the empty bottle of Firewhiskey, of course, but hadn't an idea if Cornwell had been the one to drink it all. Cornwell's face spoke volumes of his lack of sleep—tears, too. Yes, lots of wretched tears, and red cheekbones flushed over whiter, paler skin than had ever existed beneath those cheekbones on his father, which were so similar to his own. He stared, as Cornwell sat down on a shiny, dark wood grand piano-bench, which accompanied an empty, apparently, lonely piano the room held. It must have been some sort of hobby-lounge. It was filled with books and musical instruments, some of which were strung up on the walls. The place looked like it hadn't been fully used in years.

Draco shook his head, silently. He had found that he couldn't bring himself to speak.

Cornwell only continued to stare at his son, his eyes glazed over, "Ask me now or never ask me, again."

Draco turned away from him and faced a bookshelf, "There's part of me that wants to forget you or who you are."

"That's quite understandable, Draco, and if you would let me, I'd explain the situation."

"There is nothing that could justify why everyone kept you from Harry. He _is_ dead, you know."

"Dead is one thing Harry is not, Draco. Not until he's defeated Voldemort—"

"That's not all he is, you know. He's a person, too." He turned his eyes over his shoulder, before he could stop himself, and he fixed a very set, pointed glare at his father, as if he must have forgotten that Harry was not just a thing. Everyone seemed to think that Harry was a thing, even though no one had ever specifically treated Harry like that in front of Draco. Draco was just drawing conclusions, by himself. If there was no other reason for his conclusion, it could be explained in just the fact that they had toyed with Harry Potter, brought him back to life in a different body, just so he could go and defeat Voldemort—they hadn't even let him die, peacefully. Peacefully, and with his parents.

"You're preaching to the wrong choir, Draco. I know perfectly well that he is human, as I've told this to myself since I was twenty years old. If you think, for an instant, that I've not had dreams about this—_nightmares_, even—being kept from Harry, from you, from everyone, you are mad—which would make you easily more of my son than you usually are, but, you _must _understand that I do care about Harry, Draco. I don't look at him the way you're insinuating. Maybe other people do—Dumbledore, included, and I acknowledge it."

Draco stared at the meaningless and wordless book titles his eyes were blindly searching, "There is no justification."

"I know that, Draco. Don't act as if I am below your level of intellect. I am not a heartless bastard, and if I've done something, solely, to you, in your life, to make you feel as if I am, then I feel I've failed in everything."

Draco turned around, immediately, shocked at what had left Cornwell's mouth, "I don't act as if you are below me—"

"You're suggesting that I went into this not caring it was going to, potentially, cost Harry his _life_."

Draco turned his back, again, immediately, feeling extremely emotional. The way his father was talking to him was breaking his heart. He was the most sincere, genuine, loving, beautiful person—man, at least—in the world. The way he spoke cut into Draco's body, into his heart, into his soul, like a clear, hot, sharp knife. It only pained him because he had been separated from the truth of his own father for so long. He didn't know if he could handle whatever it was. If it was not a good reason, Draco didn't want to become bitter with Cornwell. He loved Cornwell so much that it hurt him, physically. He wanted to share so much. He wanted to grab onto Cornwell's arm, one morning, and beg him to play Quidditch like they used to—in the rain, so they could be muddy—a favorite past-time of Draco's. He wanted to know nothing and everything at the same time, but he could no decide. Back and forth, back and forth, went his mind.

"You did cost him his life."

"No, I have not, Draco," Cornwell softly murmured. It was very quiet.

Draco cast his father a skeptical look, standing in front of the book-case, sideways, "His physical body, Cornwell."

Cornwell only nodded, once, as if to let Draco know he had already comprehended that point, "He's not dead, Draco."

"Not spiritually."

"Not at _all_, Draco. His body is fine. It's still existing. He's still breathing—cold and lifeless, but still very much alive."

Draco rushed away from the book-case, at last, and sat down, on his knees, on an ottoman, leaning over it to be closer to his father, to make sure that he had heard right, his eyes widened with awe—and, a bit of danger. Was it possible? It couldn't have been! But, could it? Potter! Back in Potter's body? The thrill rushed through him, and he tried to imagine the look on Harry's face when he found out, but he could not even begin to process it in his brain, "But, I saw him at his funeral, Cornwell. He was lifeless, and cold, and he wasn't breathing—"

"He was breathing, Draco. You just couldn't feel it. There was a spell cast to prevent his chest from rising and falling."

Draco's dried lips parted to an astonished flaw, and he just stared, dumbfounded, "Can he... can he... can he ever—"

"It will depend on if he defeats Voldemort, Draco, and how. If he dies, as Judas, he will die, completely, _as_ Judas."

"Judas—I... If Harry is in Judas's body, where is Judas?"

Cornwell hesitated, but then glanced at Draco, who was just staring him down and waiting, impatiently, for things that he should have been told, at least, weeks earlier. So, he gave in with one very tortured sigh, and he began to ring his hands together. "This is the tricky part, Draco—Judas is in Harry's body—with a weak soul. He was actually hit that night, along with his mother and brother. His soul was not strong enough to carry on with his body after he was hit, so to keep Harry's body... warm, for a lack of a better explanation, Judas was put there, and Harry's soul was as strong as ever, so we put him in Judas, because we could bring him back—therefore, neither will die if things go as hoped. Before we brought either back, they were existing on some open eternal plane—where they had the chance to discuss what we could not with them. What was said, I don't know. But, Judas gave his consent to go forth. He probably still existing on that plane, very much alone and with absolutely nothing to do."

"You mean, he's... he's... not..." Not alive? Not well? Half-way there? Just not dead? Just existing, in the world? Not conscious or well, or able to think or exist, mentally. This news dragged him down, but the news that Harry's body was still somewhere, out there, being taken care of, was amazing. The idea of Harry defeating Voldemort suddenly overpowered Draco. With a great leap of relief, he jumped off of the ottoman he was sitting on, on his knees, and stood up. He clutched his face between his hands, his eyes searching the wooden floors. And, he swore, as he stood there, _god-damnit_, if it was the last thing he did, he would make sure Harry killed the bastard of a... a... _thing_—Voldemort! What a sick bastard! How little he knew! How little he knew. Of course, Draco knew even less, but he knew that Harry Potter was going to be extremely determined and re-inspired to defeat the dark lord— "Why did you get angry with Lucius for taking us into dream-state?"

Draco turned around, again, to his father, and dropped his hands to his sides, where he lightly squeezed.

"Voldemort easily could have sensed you, Draco. If he made no avail of it, perhaps not. I don't doubt that he ever thought Lucius would betray him by bringing others into dream-state, and to there, of all places." Draco walked around the ottoman, this time, and he sat down across from his father, heavily, with a completely straight face. Cornwell continued. "Dream-state is beyond dangerous. It's never guaranteed that anyone will come out of dream-state alive. It's so difficult to create, to begin with. It takes years and years of personal visualizing to even begin to create that sort of place. Men and women can get stuck in dream-state. In your case, you better count each one of your lucky stars that he didn't find you and murder you on the spot. Lucius was protected. You were not. You wouldn't have been able to come out of that in your right mind. You would have been altered in ways I can't even describe to you—no more trips into dream-state, Draco, and if someone ever tries to pull you back into his dream-state—including Voldemort, himself—_you get out of there._"

Draco's eyebrows furrowed. Hell, he was alone with his father. He could act however he wanted to. He could stand up and start screaming the lyrics to old rock songs. He didn't have an image to uphold to anyone. It was them, alone, and Draco wanted his answers. He wanted his world to be solved in one sentence. In two sentences! In three! Or four! He just wanted something more, to his current situation in live, than just what he had. He took in a deep breath, clapped his hands together, soundlessly, and leaned forward a bit. At last, he breathed, "_Okay_."

Cornwell just continued to watch Draco, with his hands folded. He was waiting, patiently, and in no apparent rush.

Draco hesitated, and then quietly murmured, "Voldemort wants me."

Cornwell wasn't nearly as shy or careful about it. Draco knew it was probably because he had had way too much to drink, which did make him seem a bit more human. He seemed so much more innocent than usual, just idly gazing at Draco and giving Draco the lead to ask or not ask. They were just sitting there, and that was all it had to be if that's how far Draco wanted the hostage-situation to go. He had free-reign over what he was going to be told, "That's an understatement. He more than wants you."

Draco found strange, odd undertones in his father's voice, "Care to elaborate?"

"No. I'll answer what you want me to answer. To elaborate would waste your time, tonight."

"Fine," Draco gave in, just as quickly, his voice eager and fast, "does he _need_ me?"

The side of Cornwell's mouth twitched, "No, he _desires_ you. He desires your power and possible loyalty to him--"

"Why."

_There_, point blank, straight from his entire point of existence, which seemed to be almost clear of static.

Cornwell blinked.

Draco refused to blink until he had an answer.

Cornwell cleared his throat and leaned forward, over his knees, motioning Draco in with his fingertip, "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

Draco leaned in, until the tips of their noses were only about an inch apart. He swallowed instead of answering.

Cornwell opened up his left palm and offered it out, "Give me your hand."

Draco rested his right hand down, immediately, in his father's huge palm. It was a palm that Draco's was similar to, "Memory or something?"

"No," Cornwell chuckled, thought uneasily, as his hand tightly wrapped around Draco's, "just want to make sure you don't flee."

Draco nearly saw a gigantic question mark, flashing with red warning lights around it, flash in front of his eyes.

God, _flee_? Cornwell thought he would _flee_ after hearing the news? Well, it wasn't far-fetched, "Just tell me."

Cornwell stared into his eyes, "Draco, you know I love you."

Draco nodded, once, and felt a strong blush in his cheeks, "Yeah."

"And, you know I never wanted to hurt you in any way, at all."

"Yeah."

"And, to let Voldemort near you would make my skin burn."

"Yeah."

"I'd feel murderous. You're not ever to repeat what I tell you, unless it's to Harry, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You and Dickie are the most important things in my life."

Draco felt on the verge of tears. Cornwell was whispering so softly, staring at him with such love, "_I know_."

God-damnit, he didn't know! He knew, but he didn't _know_! He knew Cornwell loved him! He knew he was important to Cornwell, but having Cornwell sitting there, holding his hand, staring into the deepest part of Draco's unrestricted soul, ripped and shredded at the core of his heart. It was raw. It was real. Being reaffirmed, by Cornwell, about anything and everything, in Draco's twisted, brilliant life, meant the world to him. It was just in the way that Cornwell stared at him, though his eyes were a bit glassy. Draco decided he didn't know whether to chalk the shininess up as result of alcohol or the result of Cornwell being slightly tearful to tell Draco what he had been trying to get to telling him—which, apparently, he was very hesitant about just blurting out.

"At Hogwarts, I was sorted into Slytherin."

Draco grinned a little, "Yes."

Cornwell paused, staring very intently at him. With caution, he continued, "By _choice_."

Draco squinted, "You were allowed to pick which house you wanted, right? Because you started Hogwarts so late?"

Cornwell nodded, "All right, give me your other hand."

Draco lowered his left hand into his father's right hand, and then both of his hands were being held, tightly.

"James—Potter—James Potter, he was born powerful. He had great talent—a natural."

Draco said nothing. Suddenly, he wished Harry was right beside him, just so Harry could hear what he hadn't ever, before.

"When Voldemort rose to his full power, I was only twenty or so. James and I were the best of friends, you know that." Cornwell paused. He seemed to become very solemn and sobered as he began to look down at his tightly squeezed hands, over his son's, for the right direction to begin in. He found Draco's eyes, once more, guiltily. "James knew something about me that no one knew, including me. He didn't know what it was until we were sixteen, when I first attended Hogwarts. He would look at me strangely, sometimes, when we would duel for fun. I'd look at him the same way."

Draco had no idea where the trip down memory-lane was taking them, but he didn't mind.

Cornwell didn't let his eyes move from Draco's hopeful, intent gray set, "After we discovered what we did, we kept it quiet."

Draco didn't bother to scoff or make a noise—he knew it was coming. A vampire? Werewolf? A prophecy? A_ curse_?

"I suppose you know about the Order of the Phoenix..." After all, they were at Order headquarters. Draco simply nodded, without any hint or bit of sarcasm or smugness crossing over his features, nor his mind. Cornwell, in return, gave a slight smirk at himself and drew in a deep breath as he spoke. "James and I created the Order of the Phoenix when we were nineteen—it was an idea we had for fun, and Dumbledore made it official a year later after James blurted something out about it."

"_You_ and... the Order... you and James? But... I mean, why? Why would... why would you be involved in _that_ or _this_—now, _here_, right now?"

"I'm getting to that," Cornwell laughed, at Draco's tiny, tiny voice. He gave Draco's two hands another squeeze, and when he did, he got one right back. "Voldemort rose as the heir of Slytherin before he rose as Voldemort, _the Dark Lord_, and when he was at the top, the prophecy about Harry came about—a prophecy no one thought was known about until the night James and Lily were murdered... but, that wasn't true. No, that wasn't true at all."

Draco could hear his own heart pumping. His head gave a, most minute, tilt to the right, and he whispered, "What?"

"James knew about the prophecy at least two years before—just not by name. He had a summer internship at the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry—a high-placed and distinguished job for a kid nearly fresh out of Hogwarts—when we were eighteen and developing more about what he was, what I was—and, he came across the prophecy. At the time, there was no baby for the prophecy, and he forgot about it until Lily was pregnant with Harry, and he realized, then, that this man, _the Darkest Lord_, had risen, and the prophecy that he remembered had spoken of the baby to defeat the Dark Lord. He went back to check it, broke in with some risky wand-work, to say the least, and found out it was Harry that was needed—mostly based on the birthday and Lily's due date. They had been in hiding, at the time, because Voldemort was after the Order members—all of us—as we had been the only ones to oppose him—the only ones to battle it out, while the ministry battled it unsuccessfully, sometimes ignoring that he was even there at all, as if the threat did not exist."

"James and I knew of the battle that was to come, from Voldemort, and that was why we started the Order."

Draco was staring, still, trying to remember every last bit of recollection, "How did you two know of his plans?"

Cornwell smiled, laughed to himself, with his lips closed together, "We had done a lot of research, James and I."

"But, why? What was it that made you two so powerful? James was born powerful, and what were _you_?"

Cornwell took in a big deep breath and lifted their hands up a bit, "I was born powerful, too."

"Were you?" He asked, trying to get Cornwell to spit it out, but he didn't seem to be ready to.

Cornwell nodded, "A prophecy was actually made about James and I meeting when we were boys, and we did."

"By name? Cornwell Black and James Potter to meet in a park? Power ensues?"

"No, it was more along the means of the powerful wizard to give seed to—"

"Yeah, I don't need to hear that," Draco found himself laughing, embarrassed.

Cornwell chuckled, too, but very worriedly, "I was about two sentences from telling you."

Draco bit into his bottom lip and concentrated on his father's dark eyes, for a long moment. But, he could no longer take the intense stare, and all of his rushing blood, so he burst with anxiety, "Tell me!"

"I can't just come out and say it. It won't be right."

Draco blinked at him, at last, because his eyes were becoming exceedingly dry, "Okay, then continue."

"If you insist," Cornwell agreed, imitating Draco, which earned a very boy-ish smile from his son. "James was born to be a massively powerful wizard. He had a huge ego, and he was known for it. I'm sure you've heard." Draco nodded. "It was true, he was very, uh... _inflated_, at least before I got to Hogwarts." He suddenly trailed off and his eyes lowered. He began to chuckle, under his breath, as if recalling something from his past that her still treasured dearly. He looked up. "We used to laugh about what happened after I attended Hogwarts. He used to call the days before the taming of the lion—you know, like Shakespeare and the shrew?—anyway, even with James's exceptional power, his ego was not based on that. He didn't use his power, or his talent, in the way he used Quidditch, his looks, his friends, his charm or his sarcasm. He kept his power to himself—he was wise, that way. Very wise. But, no one understood what was beneath the layers of egoism, because none of them had access to see—aside from the Order, I suppose."

"James was born with power, and you were born with it, too."

Cornwell looked at Draco as if he hadn't been listening at all, but Draco immediately flushed and gave a sheepish smile, which he meant for Cornwell to take as an admission of being impatient, but still having been listening, "_Yes_, Draco."

"I think we're going in circles, here, dad."

Cornwell blinked, "What did you just call me?"

Draco coughed, but did not back out of the question or shy away. He had no reason to, "What... you _are_ my dad." That was what Draco had always called Cornwell—papa or dad, whereas Lucius had always been daddy or father. Things had just worked that way. Draco's first words had been, to Cornwell, "Papa." He had identified, even then, Cornwell as being his father. He had had two father figures in his life—both were very different, but he didn't love one more than the other. He felt like there were two very co-existing parts of him trying to find a balance—Draco Malfoy and Draco Black. He liked being Draco Black when it was only he and Cornwell. He was free to be the same little boy he had once been—free of every damn restriction that being a Malfoy had ever given him, which was truly ironic, because the restrictions, to everyone else in the world, to being a Malfoy were very slim. Except, he wasn't only a Malfoy at heart.

Cornwell sighed with great trouble, "I don't want to tell you, anymore. You'll curse me, Draco. You'll curse me dad—I mean, _dead_—you'll curse me dead."

Draco felt a very strong tug at his chest. Cornwell was very overwhelmed at Draco having called him dad. He had not heard that word in long, long time, it seemed, and Draco hadn't said it, for just as long, in the context he just had. It did not feel awkward to say. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like it had felt all of his life. He sighed, too, though, sensing that Cornwell was now distraught over what he had to tell Draco after Draco had called him _dad_, "You're making it worse by telling me that. Come on, tell me."

Cornwell sighed and breathed, in one breath. Perhaps Draco's suggestion had finally come through, loud and clear, because Draco distinctly saw a very wired, truthful flush wipe away any distance in Cornwell's eyes and then in his entire expression, "James was born to be powerful, but when Harry's prophecy came about, he was not only a powerful wizard, made that way by birth, but also the man responsible for the birth of another powerful wizard. He was going to bring the boy into the world who would defeat the Dark Lord. Naturally, to defeat the dark lord, James and I combined forced and decided to turn what we did best—just being best friends—into something for the greater good, as it made sense. He was going to bring the boy into the world to defeat the Dark Lord, the heir of Slytherin of whom a blood-rage war carried on from centuries earlier to me—to James, to Harry—to _you_, Draco." He paused and flinched, staring right into Draco's equally hesitant face, as if he were facing a monster that was about to pop out of his father and swallow him whole. And, then Cornwell raised their hands and cupped them around Draco's face, and he partly covered Draco's ears. He whispered instead of announced. "The reason I have anything to do with Voldemort, at all, Draco, is because I _am_ the... _God, damnit_, you know I don't want to tell you this—the heir of Gryffindor."

Draco just barely heard, but he had fully seen his father mouth the words to go along with the quiet admission.

All was silent and perfectly still.

After a few minutes of Draco being in somewhat of a shock, he finally spoke, "You're the heir of Gryffindor."

Still, holding Draco's hands, and still bent toward Draco, who had since straightened his posture, Cornwell nodded.

Draco looked down at the floor, chewing on his bottom lip, "You're the heir of Gryffindor."

This time, Cornwell didn't answer.

"You, Cornwell _Black_, are the heir of Gryffindor."

"Funny, isn't it?"

Draco's eyelashes fluttered.

Silence pulsated between them.

"You are the heir of Gryffindor," he repeated, in a whisper, and then felt himself become a little disoriented.

"You look a little pasty."

Draco swallowed down a giant lump in his throat, beginning to blink himself back to reality, "You..."

Cornwell was horribly awkward and even more horribly hesitant, "This doesn't make you any less of a Slytherin."

Draco blinked, "I've spent... my _entire_ life saluting Slytherin, and I have the blood of _Godric Gryffindor_? WHAT!" And, before he could control himself, he had thrown himself up and away from the ottoman he had taken a seat on. He went to pull himself away, his mind in fifteen-million different places, lost in mixes of fury, denial and pure outrageousness. For a second, as he pulled away, there was a force that kept him from tearing away, completely—it was Cornwell's hands. But, shortly after the tug, Cornwell's hands left his own, giving Draco the ability to freely move as far away as he wanted to—and, he did. He walked, and that was all he did. He didn't know where he wanted to go or what he wanted to say—just... just.. GRYFFINDOR!

Draco Malfoy was the epitome of a Slytherin. He had grown up as a Slytherin! His favorite color had been imbedded into his brain as being green! He had the Slytherin characteristics! The sorting hat had put him in Slytherin—sure, there had been a little gibberish that it had spoken, but Draco hadn't paid that any attention! It had barely even touched his head before he had been declared a Slytherin! Ridiculous! It was absolute insanity! TO HAVE THE BLOOD OF A GRYFFINDOR! No, not a Gryffindor—Godric Gryffindor? Was that it? How was it even possible? His father was a Black! Blacks had always been Slytherin's—well, no—no. No, shit, they hadn't!

Draco mustered a groan and he threw himself against a book-case, front first, and banged his head on a row of old Encyclopedias. NO, NO. Everything in his life had been complicated. The summer had trenched his life and his life's scope into more than what he had ever known existed. The world had lied. He had lied to the world. But, through all of that, he had still been Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin. It was not trivial. It was important. It was very, very important. And, gone, just like that! So much for being a full-prided Slytherin! He could never feel the same way about it, knowing that he had the blood of Salazar Slytherin's enemy carousing and perusing with bravado and hot-headed-ness. No! It was a tragedy!

Draco Malfoy was not a Gryffindor! Draco Black was not a Gryffindor! _No_ Draco was a Gryffindor! It was simply not acceptable. There had to have been made a mistake. Maybe it had not been passed onto him. Maybe his blood—maybe his blood was all wrong. Maybe he... maybe he... no, no, no, no. He gave one last, miserable bang against the solid, thick shelf of books with his forehead, his opened palms resting on books on one of the shelves below. He stopped moving, completely, with closed eyes, feeling as if he had been beaten and left for dead, "I am not a Gryffindor—no part of me is a Gryffindor. My BLOOD is not SUSPECT to GRYFFINDOR BLOOD. I am pure-blooded Slytherin."

"Your blood is not of Slytherin, Draco, but your heart is. Don't let this take over your head."

"Don't let it take over my head!" Draco almost cried, as he sighed with disbelief. He gave another bang of his forehead onto the wall of books. It was a soft bang, because the binding of the Encyclopedias were soft leather. Soft, brown leather, it seemed, with little green imprints for the letter of which each Encyclopedia held contents of. Green! Green! Oh, God, his lovely green—his ties, his sofas, his pajama pants, his childhood toys, trinkets in green, Potter's eyes... God, everything green had always spelled home for Draco. Home, home—and... and then some Gryffindor comes along, and—"But, you were in Slytherin."

"I had no idea who I was when I arrived there, Draco. I chose Slytherin."

"Slytherin chose your son—oh, FUCKING GOD, why are you doing this to me?" He interrupted himself, knowing better than to ask any more questions than he needed answered. He continued to find a pattern and rhythm to the pound his forehead made against the books. His right hand clutched over the top of the encyclopedias, too, to feel them move. He just didn't know how to process what he had been told. He didn't know what to feel, at all! He didn't know whether to be mad. He didn't know if it justified anything, but it probably, easily, could have. He just didn't have the potential capacity or focus in his brain to set thought into analyzing. "This makes absolutely no sense." He stopped banging his head and pulled it away.

Draco's body turned. A blanket of automatic motion had taken control of his brain and functions, at least for that very moment. He did not want to think about himself. Thoughts of his life went out the window, and the more important questions came flocking in, instead. Draco was mostly in shock—shock that wasn't just going to fizzle down within a few minutes. He could barely adjust to having been told, much less having had to begin to take it in for what it was. Instead, his eyes locked onto the only other soul in the room, his dry lips separated as he watched the other man.

Cornwell was still sitting, but he was looking at his hands, rubbing them together, awkwardly.

Draco's eyes squinted, hard, until his vision was a fraction of his usual. This man was the heir of Gryffindor? His father... was... the heir of Gryffindor. Good fucking GOD. The last thing Draco ever thought Cornwell to have been was an heir of anything, much less the heir of Godric Gryffindor! The feud between Salazar and Godric had been carried down, through the years, and into Cornwell and Voldemort—who, just as, centuries before, their ancestors had fought over the exact same blood-rights as Voldemort and Cornwell had supposedly battled—but, Cornwell had gone into hiding, and Voldemort had been reduced to nearly a living spirit, leeching on people. And, after all of that time, they were both back—with Voldemort trying to avenge and finish the same exact war that had been started years before—magic and pureblood.

The Ministry didn't matter. They didn't have a say.

It came down to power. Only Cornwell could battle with Voldemort, and only Voldemort could battle with Cornwell over something that had been existing through-out generations and years. Their feud was just as powerful and ten times more relevant than any other feud that had been existing about pureblood, because their hate for each other, their distaste and differences were imbedded in them through their blood.

Cornwell looked up, silently.

Draco had his arms tightly crossed over his chest, "He thinks Harry is dead, so now he can finish you."

Cornwell did not nod, he only quietly spoke, "With both of us gone, nothing else could stop him—not a thousand powerful wizards, not a thousand killing curses. He thinks he's done away with Harry, and he's after me, now, because when I am gone, the fight is gone. I figured that if he was busy trying to get to me, he'd be too distracted to realize that Harry is very much alive. Harry is, also, very much, the only person who can kill Voldemort—at least by way of prophecy. The only thing I could do to him was battle him until we were both out of power and shaking. Because he rose as the Heir of Slytherin and into the Dark Lord, only the one to defeat the Dark Lord can defeat him. Harry's war is my war. The feud between Salazar and Godric is the war Voldemort and I face today—same thing. Only, I can't bring him down. It's me he wants—it's me who stops him. It's me who the war wages on with. It's the differences in opinion. Except, it is not me who can be the one to bring him down, because he's not only the Heir of Slytherin, anymore. It's far greater than that—he has risen into something... so... brilliant."

Draco's eyes were very, very, very soft.

"He's far beyond powerful. But, wherever there is active power, there is always a counter-balance."

"Harry."

"Yes, Harry," Cornwell responded, his voice raspy and low. "His power is... I... can't even imagine what he'll turn into."

Draco felt as if he had been stabbed by a blunt wand-tip, "What do you _mean_?"

Cornwell looked up from his hands, again, helplessly. He was perfectly still, as he had been. His hands had been folded and unfolded over his lap, many times. He spent his time looking down at them when Draco looked away from him. He shook his head, barely, "His power, Draco... it'll be unlike... _anything_... any of us have ever seen, or... could even ever imagine. Dumbledore has restricted him—played down his power by not speaking about it. He's been called powerful, but he doesn't realize to the extent of which he is, of which he will be. If he had any idea, now, he would be different. If he acknowledged his power, it would begin to evolve within him. No one ever wanted to tell him, because... you know, Draco. You know. He is a weapon."

Draco's teeth slammed together, "_He's not a weapon!_"

Cornwell abruptly stood and started for Draco, with such intensity in his eyes, "Draco,_ I _know that! I am the one who knows of his power! I'm the one who knew of his father's power the best! The fact is, no one wants him to know, because once he knows, he will no longer be under Dumbledore's thumb. He will realize his power. He will branch out. He won't listen to those who think they know what they're doing—Dumbledore, Gregarold Cliffdale, Adonis Halite—so many men, Draco. This goes over Harry's head, and it has for his entire life, and he's had no idea. When, in actuality, none of it should have gone over his head, and, I know..._ I know_," his voice cracked as he acknowledged what he began to, "the day is going to come when Harry is going to learn all of the things that have been kept from him—all of the lies and deceit, and he's going to run with his power—but, where he runs to, and what he does with it, Draco, will effect everyone."

Draco could not stop shaking his head, extremely knotted inside, "He could never turn into a monster. He could never be Voldemort—he doesn't have anything in him that would turn him against anyone other than the world, in general."

Cornwell reached Draco. He reached out and took Draco's upper arms, with the most tender hold Draco thought he had ever felt, and he gave Draco a slight nudge with his hands, but it just barely moved Draco. He dropped his eyes until they were level, exactly, with Draco's, the inch or so, "I'm not suggesting that he would become anything remotely like Voldemort, and I'm probably the only one who doesn't believe so. Harry and Tom Riddle have very similar beginnings. Harry has been avenging death, as a weapon, for six years now, and before that... well... just... his power is very overwhelming, Draco. His potential to do things—to our world, to the muggle world... people would fall at his feet if they knew. But, he hasn't been allowed to know who he is, fully, because he does have something he needs to do for the good of our world—he needs to be the weapon they want, and he needs to be lied to and talked-down to. He needs to be under someone's thumb—Dumbledore's, obviously—which means he can still be controlled."

"Stop referring to him as a weapon if you don't want him to be one."

"Draco, whether or not I want Harry to eventually know his potential, he needs to defeat Voldemort, or he _will_ die. If he dies, we're left with Voldemort."

Draco swallowed, "You want me to lie to him, now, Cornwell? Every time I look at him—into his _brown_ eyes?"

"No," Cornwell whispered, barely at all, seriously, "I believe Harry knows of his power better than Dumbledore thinks."

Draco could not deny that discussing Harry's power sent shivers up his spine and placed goose-bumps on his limbs. Harry's legend was something far greater than just the Boy-Who-Lived, and perhaps, Draco had not realized it. He had heard of Harry's great power, from Lucius, at times, but he figured that power to only be great power—not something so far beyond great power that it consumed the energy of power to begin with. Harry—his broken Harry Potter, in someone else's body. He couldn't keep secrets from Harry. He didn't see Harry as a big, powerful entity. He saw Harry as Harry, simply, and hearing about him, any other way, was somehow strangely unbelievable. He believed that Harry had great power, but to think that Harry would run with it, as Dumbledore and men far more hidden and in control than Draco knew, was ridiculous. Regardless of Harry's past, regardless of what might happen when the truth was leaked out to Harry, Harry just wasn't the sort of person to fly off of the handle and suck up power—he had spent his life trying to rid of that. He had spent his life knowing, exactly, what power did in the hands of the wrong men—"What if he wants to do something great with it?"

"I don't think Harry would ever do anything _bad_ with it, Draco."

Draco just watched his father speak, intently, carefully, "He might."

"He wouldn't," Cornwell assured, under his breath. "He may have desires, but he wouldn't hurt innocent people."

Draco knew that.

"Do you understand, though, the hesitance against Harry knowing? It'd be a young kid calling the shots."

"And, that scares the old magic community," Draco surmised the obvious.

Cornwell simply nodded his head, "Harry knows he is powerful, already. I've tried to tell Dumbledore. Harry seems to have coped with his power—you know, like the planetary alignment of his life, and every single second that things happened in his life, ended up just right, and ended up turning him into _such_ a well-adjusted, unusually calm young man, whereas the events of his life wouldn't shock him when he found out he had the power he does, where he wouldn't fly off of the handle. Maybe he'd be a little riskier, sure, and not be threatened by those who threaten him back. But, Dumbledore believes Harry is just a normal teenage boy, and that he knows not an ounce of his true power."

"I don't think he does, either, Cornwell," Draco whispered. It came from no where. Draco blinked at himself.

Cornwell did not argue with Draco. His eyes hooded, and he whispered, quietly, "Next time you're alone with him in a room, watch him, Draco. Every minute I was in the same room with him in the manor, when no one else was around, I watched him. It's there. It's in his goal. If it's in him, and he knows, Draco, you're going to hear it when he talks about bringing Voldemort down. He's going to be very focused, and very optimistic, and you're going to wonder why he is that way without a set plan—and, you're going to realize that he's not worried about a plan, because it's his power that's going to help him—as it has been for the last _six years_. He does not think about plans. He thinks about what it's going to be like when it's over, and do you know why he's like that, Draco?" He patted Draco's cheek, softly, because Draco was staring at him, very intensely, with sharp eyebrows. "Because, he already knows he's going to succeed, but he doesn't know how, or why, or when. _He just knows_."

Draco had rethought his position. Cornwell was right. Harry had always been mostly optimistic—even when it came to things like flying through a field, in the middle of the night, to get to Cornwell's house to get he and Dickie out, safely. He didn't have a plan. He just went by what was in the moment. Time and time, again, when Harry spoke about his past, there was an underlying layer of hope. Cornwell was right. Even in the church, the day or night before, Harry had told him that he was looking forward to them sitting in a class, at Hogwarts, after Voldemort had been defeated, and just smiling at each other in a way that no one else could understand.

Cornwell's words stuck in his brain.

_He just knows_.

To question it, otherwise, Draco realized, was a lousy, misguided, misinformed, ignorant way of looking at Harry—especially by Dumbledore, of all people in the world, who should have known Harry best. But, "Dumbledore truly doesn't believe Harry knows?"

Cornwell shook his head, "Dumbledore wants nothing but the best for Harry... but, only after Harry has done the best for everyone else."

"Do you suppose that Harry knows the depth of this—how little he knows that you all keep from him?"

"No, Draco," Cornwell admitted, and his eyes lowered. "No, sadly, I don't."

"You do understand that I am going to find Harry and speak about his power with him, don't you?"

Cornwell looked at him. For a moment, he paused, but then slightly smiled, "He already knows, Draco. He knows that he is powerful. Didn't you hear him, last night?" Draco's eyes flickered, as if he had just remembered, and then he nodded, giving a "hum" of interesting observation. "However, I do think it is good that you let him know you're knowledgeable in the extent of his power. I think..." He laughed. "I just don't think he cares about power, Draco. I think it just doesn't matter to him—it doesn't register."

Draco hummed, again, "He does know he's powerful."

Cornwell gave a slight nod, and he led Draco away from the book-shelf, "You should know something else."

Draco followed his father until the were standing to the left of a small group of sofas. He had taken in every word that Cornwell had spoken to him. Draco did not doubt Harry's power, and he never had. He just hadn't really thought into the issue of whether or not Harry understood his own power. It didn't matter, in the end, to Draco, because... well, Harry was just Harry! They were seventeen years old. Harry wasn't just a ball of raging hormones and a life of lies waiting to be destroyed! He was Harry! Funny, charming, innocent, cute, sometimes naive, sometimes sexy, smart Harry—which his own happy memories and his own friends. His life had been tragic, yes, but it was still a life and not a thing—he was not a thing which would combust. He was not a fictional character who would turn from a sensible, well-balanced young man into an extreme of evil—he was just as_ just_ as Draco was.

Draco sighed, "What should I know?"

"Voldemort—he wants you, too. You were born powerful. You're not a little sunshine cup in a field, you know, even though you look like one, sometimes."

Draco snorted.

Cornwell's warm eyes just continued to warmly radiate, and he softly smiled, too, "You're not a force to be reckoned with, yourself." He reached up, patted Draco on the top of his blonde head, with appraising eyes, as if proud, and he dropped his hand, then, to Draco's shoulder. He squeezed it. "You're my son, after all. You're a Black, and a Malfoy, and if you keep on using your _Draco-Malfoy-ness _with Harry, you might end up halfway a Potter. You light up a bit when he walks into a room. I noticed it."

Draco felt his entire face fall, when he hadn't even given it permission to do so.

Cornwell smiled at him, silently, his whole face scrunched up, "That's a telling reaction, Draco."

"I do light up, I'll admit it. I like him better than I like myself, sometimes."

Cornwell chuckled, "He's a good friend to you, isn't he?"

Draco's heart ached at the question, "You have... _no... _idea what he is to me—what he means to me, I mean."

"I might."

"He's my best friend, you know," Draco blurted out in a very proud way, somewhere out of left field, and then felt his face begin to flush. "At least, he's the best friend I've ever had." Before he could continue to go on about how much Harry's friendship meant to him, Draco closed his brain off and he leapt forward the couple of inches, lifted his arms, and tightly wrapped his arms around his father's shoulder. He hadn't hugged him in a million years, it seemed, and he wanted nothing more than that. His father had just shared with him a huge secret. It was a huge deal to Draco—hell, to their entire world. He loved Cornwell with all of his heart. He just wanted the secrets and lies to stop, all around the world. His really clutched tight onto his father, and rested his cheek, hard, against Cornwell's shoulder—he did it quickly, and he made himself pull back pretty quickly, as well, not wanting it to be more awkward than it already was—he had practically jumped his father, after all. He was hardly satisfied with the hug, as Cornwell hadn't really had time to respond, but that was okay. He just needed to have done it.

Once Draco pulled away, he was looking at the floor and going to turn around to leave.

Cornwell laughed, once.

Draco stopped. He didn't know what made him stop. He just did, and he turned back around.

Cornwell was still only about a foot away from him, and he was grinning, widely. Draco quietly murmured an insecure, "What?"

"Would you come here, Draco?"

Draco squinted, "No."

"Come here."

Draco felt his cheeks warm, "No."

Cornwell paused for a moment and reached out his left hand, "Come here, Draco."

Before Draco could protest, Cornwell had grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug—a real hug.

The best hug, ever, that he could remember.

"_Merlin,_" Draco suddenly hissed, "_I'm turning into SUCH A BLOODY GRYFFINDOR_. I'm going to _kill_ Potter."

Potter and his damn affection spread more rapidly than Draco's Sexually Transmitted Delusions!

On his way out of the room, not much later, Cornwell stopped him with a light mention of his name. Draco turned around, from the center of the open door-frame he was standing in. It had felt good to be hugged as Cornwell had hugged him. He had been sure, when he was little, that Cornwell gave the best hugs in the world, and he hadn't just been a childhood illusion of a father being a hero and the best at everything. Cornwell's hugs were world-class. They were warm, strong, and completely affectionate, and Draco was glad he had been able to feel it, again. He was glad Cornwell had told him about being the Heir of Gryffindor. Sure, a lot of questions and analyzing came along with that, but it didn't matter, to Draco, as he stood there. He was the son of his mother and father, and he was a Slytherin. He was a Slytherin at heart—well, aside from the way he had somehow come in contact with affection, and it had rubbed off of in him.

Harry had rubbed off on him.

Not that Slytherins weren't affectionate. They just weren't affectionate and pathetic about it, like Draco felt he was.

"What?"

Cornwell was looking through a book, "Do restrain yourself from talking about orgasms around breakfast-time, especially in front of your brother."

Draco quickly closed the door, without having said anything. He stared at the closed door in front of him, his left hand still wrapped around the cold doorknob. He slowly let go of it, carefully, as if when he let go, it would pop back open. He could feel the embarrassment creeping up on his chest. How awkward. How awkward, in general, for Cornwell to have noticed anything about the way Harry and Draco had interacted in the first place. Granted, Draco was a little adoring and doting of Harry, but he wasn't obvious about it—hell, he barely even thought about it. And, if his eyes did light up when he was in a room with Harry, was that such a bad thing?

"Oh, there you are! You're still alive." Two fingertips pressed up against his neck. "You still have a pulse."

Draco slapped Harry's hand away, and Harry laughed—boyishly, innocently, and completely clueless. So, for a small moment, Draco's eyes latched onto Harry as deeply as they could, awed. Harry backed up a couple of steps, as he laughed. He was holding something in his elbow—a journal, his journal from the Malfoy manor that he had been writing it. In his other hand, he was holding a glass of orange juice. He was different. His cheeks were just as glowing and vibrant as they had been in the kitchen, after Harry had been seized by Lupin. It was like he hadn't stopped glowing. He was innocent, and happy, and... and, he seemed completely... like... "Harry?"

Harry squinted, his laughter winding down, "What?"

Draco stared at him, blankly, for a moment, "You want to hear something ridiculous?"

Harry laughed, nodding, his eyes taking in the way Draco was so cutely standing there, all awkward and insecure. It was a rarity to see Draco ever portraying anything other than confidence, so Harry took the moment in with great interest, "You have no idea..."

Draco stepped away from the door and toward Harry, starting to laugh, "My father, Cornwell?" Harry nodded. "He's the Heir of Gryffindor."

Harry's last sip of orange juice became raindrops between them.

Draco looked down at the orange-tinted teardrops of liquid that had seeped through white shirt. He slowly looked back up at Harry.

Harry blinked.

Draco sighed, "This is my only shirt, here, you know."

"S'all right, I have shirts you can use until you can get some new ones—I'm sorry, did you say what I think you said?"

Draco linked his arm through Harry's and knocked the journal out of Harry's elbow and into his free left hand, "Yes."

Harry let himself be led toward the bottom of the stairs, still gape-mouthed and staring straight ahead, stunned.

"Also, in other news, my father thinks I look like a _buttercup_, and you're going to be the most powerful wizard to have ever existed, supposedly."

Harry's eyes slanted from the stairs before him, and he looked at Draco, "You do look like a buttercup, sometimes."

"I think _you_ look like a pansy, ha!"

"The most powerful pansy ever, _ha_!"

Draco turned to him, abruptly, and just stared right into Harry's eyes.

Harry's eyebrows lifted, but he allowed the intense lock, "What's wrong?"

"Do you have any plans—I mean, about how we're going to bring Voldemort down?"

Harry rubbed his fingertips along the skin of his throat, over where his orange juice had slightly been choked on. Where were they going? Upstairs. Why? To be. How? Just. For how long? He didn't know. All he knew was that he hadn't waken up so wonderfully in a long time. He had seen Remus, and Tonks, and Mad-Eye Moody, and other members of the Order he had become close with over the last couple of years. Regardless of the state of their world—which was not very good, at all—Harry was thankful for what he had. He was lucky. They were lucky. Some of his friends had lost homes—lost family members, even more than one—sometimes two or three. Times were hard, and he did mostly keep himself away from listening to reports of the battles, as to not discourage himself. It wasn't the best thing to do, but it certainly helped him focus.

"Plans?" Harry asked, and then he felt a tiny smile take over his face. Malfoy was asking him about _plans_? If only it could have been that easy. "No plans. I don't know how I'm going to do it."

Draco's eyes shaped into alert half-moons.

Harry watched him, almost worriedly, and then quietly finished his explanation, "I'm just going to do it."

Draco's top teeth bit over his bottom lip before broke into a commendable smile, "I need a new shirt."

"Malfoy... you're kind of a Gryffindor."

Draco started up the stairs, "Only by blood!"

Harry followed right behind him, and he couldn't help but let out an awed laugh, "This is blackmail for centuries!"

Harry could only chalk-up Draco's cheeriness as shock. He hadn't processed it, yet, and when he did, Harry was sure he would hear about it.

"The only thing I relate to a Gryffindor on, Potter, is my uncommon and nontraditional love for you."

Harry stopped, momentarily, on an odd-numbered step, before he continued up the stairs, with a slow, hidden smile.

"SLYTHERIN IS THE BEST, Gryffindor is the worst. ALL HAIL SLYTHERIN!"

Harry just stared as Draco took off up the wooden stairs. He ran up them, and Harry could hear him singing, loudly, the Hogwarts school song, reciting the Slytherin parts, and only the Slytherin parts. By the time he caught up to Draco, Draco had arrived on the last year's Slytherin rhyme, but couldn't seem to put it together. He was standing in the room they had slept in, the night before, shirtless, with his left hand holding the balled shirt and his right hand suspended in mid-air as he repeated a line and attempted to magically pull the next out of the air, as if it would come to him, "Where'd you put my journal?"

Draco pointed at the bed, without turning around, "What is that _line_, Potter?"

"I think it actually goes something like this—Draco Malfoy is in denial, he says he's a Slytherin but he's got the Gryffindor smile. His father's the Heir, Draco's proud of his hair, and word has it he and Potter make quite a good pair—of Gryffindors—hey, I did pretty good! Not a flaw in that!" Harry collapsed down onto the bed, with his chest, and took a hold of his journal. He climbed up onto the bed and opened the journal, smiling as he watched Draco's reaction.

Draco glared at him, as he tossed his shirt onto a chair, "Charming, Potter, but inaccurate."

"No, but really, come on, sit down and tell me what he said."

Draco climbed up onto the bed, next to Harry, so they were both facing the end of it, and so they were both on their stomachs, "I'll tell you, but only if..."

Harry smirked at him, "Fine, I'll play along—only if _what_?

"Only if you let me tell you something without thinking I'm just... talking."

Harry's eyes softened, and he lightly smiled, "Malfoy, when you talk, I'm usually listening! I take what you say to heart."

"No, but I want you to _really_ hear this."

Harry pushed himself up, further, on his elbows, his eyes intently fixed on the hazy, beautiful eyes opposite his, "Okay."

Draco gave a nod of his head, simply, staring right back at him, "You're the best friend I've ever had."

Harry smiled.

Draco looked away from him, quickly, "It all started when my dad tamed your dad with his powers of utter perfection..."

Harry laughed, quietly, but said nothing to argue with Draco. He rested his cheek down on his arm and listened, happily.

It was going to be another interesting night—just, this time, Harry was somehow feeling much more at home, and much more eager to spend another night laying on a bed and listening to Draco Malfoy—or... just being with Draco Malfoy, "Malfoy."

Draco stopped talking, for the first time in about a minute. He laughed, "What? What'd I leave out?"

"Nothing," Harry assured, with a grin, "I just want to know—what's your favorite holiday?

Draco relaxed a little more, as he had been tense from talking, "Halloween." Harry smiled. "Why?"

Harry smiled even more, his eyes half-closed, "I don't know, Malfoy. I just felt like asking."

Draco watched as Harry's eyes fully closed. He waited for about thirty seconds, enchanted by watching Harry do absolutely nothing, "What's your favorite holiday?"

"Christmas. I've had bad luck on Halloweens."

"That's because you've never been to a Malfoy Halloween Masquerade. At least, not yet."

Harry forced his eyes to open. When they did, his smile softened, and he made himself choke a laugh.

Draco was resting his cheek on the backside of his hand, too, and he was staring right at Harry, as if trying to figure him out.

"Not yet?"

Draco leaned in to the side of Harry's face, after lifting himself a bit, "Go to sleep, Potter."

Harry felt warm contact on his forehead. He murmured something—he didn't know what it was, but he was reeling.

Draco didn't know what it was, either, but it sure made something in his chest feel fuzzy—damnit, _fuzzy,_ "Damn you, Potter."

Harry peeked open one eye, "Huh?"

"You're like a damn magnet. Harry's forehead, Draco's lips. Harry's eyes, Draco's eyes—"

"Draco's mouth, Draco's regrets the next morning."

Draco snuggled his face into the comforter and muffled something else.

Harry distinctly heard _pansy_ and _buttercup_. He could help but laugh, rather loudly, with a sigh, "Goodnight, _buttercup_."

Draco glared at him, from peeking out from his hiding place over the comforter, "You know too much about me."

"On the bright side, I'm a Gryffindor. Surmise what you can out of that, buttercup—ouch, sorry, _abusive_ buttercup."

"No, I am a Slytherin buttercup, putting you, a Gryffindor pansy, in your place."

"Oh, Malfoy, I'm not even going to touch that one."

Draco moaned with tired, happy laughter, his eyes still closed, as he knew Harry's were, "You're mine, alas."

"I recall you already claiming me as yours in front of a piano some time in the decade of the last two days."

"It turns me on that you're so quick to remember that."

Harry smiled, "_Play it, again_." In his mind, he was having a rather vivid recollection. He, unintentionally, shivered.

Draco peeked open his left eye. Harry was pretty much about to fall asleep, which was clear by the way his voice was so distant and wavering, "Yeah."

"But, I'm not yours, Malfoy. I'm not anyone's."

Draco's eyes softened even more, and he was glad Harry could not see them, "I know, Harry." His left fingertips lifted from under his bare chest, carefully. They were both pretty tired, and even though they had slept most of the day, through, it didn't make up for the lack of sleep they had had. Plus, there was a new element of safety around them, there, where there were other people who knew about what was going on—where Cornwell was protecting Draco and Harry, both. Where the Order of the Phoenix was fully staffed and always on call. It was a good feeling. It was nice to be able to have the option of just sleeping without having to wake up and be the only person to know the truth. Yes, the truth. The lovely truth.

The pads of Draco's fingertips shakily touched down against a soft, warm cheekbone, and then stroked downward. It turned loving and adoring, and Draco caressed his touch, as softly as he could, down Harry's cheek and to the corner of his mouth. But, he didn't fully touch the flesh. He couldn't. He gazed at the interaction of his own fingers to Harry's new face. It didn't even matter, anymore, who he was seeing, because he was so attached to Harry, as Harry the soul, that it was like he was seeing Harry al of the time, anyway. He gave a very soft, broken, distracted sigh, and he lifted his fingertips away from Harry's skin and up to his hair.

Draco smoothed his thumb over a thick lock of shiny, dark brown hair and then leaned over. He placed a kiss over that very lock, which ended up resting somewhere around Harry's hairline. Sometimes he just wanted nothing more than to shake Harry and demand Harry tell him all of the stories of his life. He really, really had come to care for Harry. It had started off so easily—so simple, though the situation hadn't been. He had always just figured they would tolerate each other, but things had evolved so much further past that.

Draco closed his eyes and pressed a deep kiss against the side of Harry's head, and deep into his hair. His nose wound up snuggling into the sweet, warm, clean sent. How did he manage to smell so good? How did his hair stay so smelly? Oh, it was such a little thing—probably a thing that most people wouldn't have given a damn about. But, Draco cared. Draco liked it, and he liked it so much that he gave a shy nuzzle of his cheek against it, because it was so soft and smooth, thick and light. He pulled his lips away, however, and stared down at Harry's close-eyed profile, intently, his left hand smoothing over the back of Harry's head. He cupped the back, for a moment, with a strangely protective, confident palm, and he felt his eyes squint with seriousness that he hadn't shown or felt in a long time.

Harry was not anyone's. Harry was Harry. Sleeping, peaceful, sweet-smelling Harry, "I know you're not the world's, Potter. I won't let the world have you."

Long after Draco had moved away and thrown a spare blanket over them, both of Harry's eyes flickered open.

It was dark. And, cold, due to the air-conditioning spell he knew Draco had produced.

His eyes fixed onto Draco, and he smiled. He reached out and gave the back of Draco's neck a small, feather-light, long, wonderful stroke of his warm index fingertip above the chilly skin, "I might be a little bit yours."

The days of that week flew by in a time-warp that Draco didn't think he had ever previously experienced. They were hardly days, rather seconds in an hour, quick and seemingly great, but on the ultimate scale, not very long, at all, and gone before it could be realized. He had spent two days laying in a bed, catching up on sleep and dealing with the news, from his mother, and from the wizarding world, at large, that the Malfoy Manor had been torn apart. It was still standing, and from images that Draco had seen, looked just as flawless as ever from the outside. But, the inside, said his mother, was not the same place.

Draco had not yet been to the manor. He was not that brave to forgo his childhood with a simple glance of eyes over broken memories and ruined gadgets. In the back of his mind, he had hoped that his study was left unharmed, or, if not unharmed, at least not destroyed completely. He had thought, as he lay in bed, by himself, dozing in and out of sleep which no one bothered to wake him out of, of what it would be like to walk into his study and not see the one place, in the world, where he felt safest. The one place he could walk into and always feel good. He hadn't wanted to deal with that not being reality.

But, those two days had faded. He had gotten himself up, on the third day, and started to walk around the infamous number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Strangely enough, no one had seemed to bother Draco, including Harry. But, when Harry would come in, at night, to crash, or when he would randomly walk into the room and fall onto the bed to join Draco in some hazy, misguided, deluded state of peace, he didn't seem to be very feeling or emotional, happy or thankful. He had been when they had first arrived, before, but it had since faded.

Harry seemed to talk to Draco as little as Draco talked to everyone else. Which was never.

Draco rolled over in his sleep. But, he wasn't asleep, because he could feel himself doing it. He sighed to himself, letting his eyes flicker open. It was hot in the room—too hot, and he wanted to attack his covers from trying to smother him. His eyes angrily began to move to the blanket over his shoulder, but halfway into it, his eye-contact was intercepted by a pair of startlingly awake brown eyes.

Harry cracked a light smile, "Sorry, but I had to wake you up."

Draco groaned, "You mean to tell me that you're the reason this room feels like it's sitting over a smokestack?" Harry's innocent smile turned a bit guilty, though he didn't nod. Draco sighed and finally moved his eyes away from Harry. So, what was the reason for making him miss out on his only escape of his life? He pushed his covers off, turning on his left side so he could face Harry. He kicked the covers off of his pajama-pant covered legs and rested halfway on his back and halfway on his side. God, his body was on fire. He irritably set his eyes back onto the alarmed, strained pair looking right back at him. "What, Potter? Why do you wake me up in the middle of the night when you've barely spoken to me for the past four days?"

"It's my birthday."

Draco debated on what to say, before deciding on, "Oh, happy birthday."

Harry pushed himself up onto his right elbow. He had spent a lot of time laying there, on the bed, on the right side, closest to the door. Even at night, Draco turned away from him when they slept, which was probably because Draco ended up going to sleep before Harry ever entered the room. He could hear the biting edge in Draco's voice, but Harry wasn't playing innocent to anything. But, he also wasn't guilty of anything, either. He had spent the last couple of days hiding in the one place where no one could find him—a room on the third floor of house. It wasn't a bedroom, a study, a library or a hobby-room. In fact, Harry didn't know what it was. All he knew was that he was drawn to it, and no one had bothered him, there, which he made sure to keep that way by rare walks across rooms where the Order members could see him and not panic as to the state of his entire well-being.

Neither really knew what to say, about anything.

Draco glanced at Harry, after a couple of minutes.

Harry looked back at him, "What?"

Draco stretched his toes out, tearing his eyes away from Harry. He fixed his eyes on his feet, feeling his muscles stretch, but not strain. It was then that Draco realized he was very much shirtless, and his pants were set very low. He almost went to correct them, but then figured it wasn't worth it. He was perfectly comfortable, and nothing was showing that Harry shouldn't have seen, and even if he did, it wasn't like he would be seeing something he had never experienced before. He dropped a hand over his forehead and rubbed it down his face, down his throat, his neck, and then over his chest, where it gave a circular rub before resting, "I wasn't going to say anything."

"Oh."

Draco heard the quiet misery, "Any news on the manor?"

"None that I would have before you, Draco."

Draco hummed, staring out a window which was diagonal from the end of the bed, "Have you been okay, Potter?"

Harry's nose nuzzled into the cool pillow he was resting against, "I'm not sure what I've been."

"Yeah," Draco drearily returned, very lowly, deadly gazing out the same window, "me, either."

Harry watched Draco's profile for awhile, wondering what was going on inside of his head. That he had heard, Draco had done about as much socializing as Harry had with the others in the house. When he saw Cornwell, here and there, he would ask how Draco was, as if Harry had been seeing more of him than anyone else. But, Harry hadn't. It had reached a point, however, that Harry began to regress in the point of conversation. He had realized that he and Draco hadn't been speaking, both lost in their own minds and agendas, depressed about war and death, helpless and defeated over different matters. But, luckily, Harry had come to his senses and realized that he had been abandoning Draco, and even though they both wanted space to deal with their own problems, "Did you eat dinner?"

Draco yawned into the back of his hand, "No."

Harry lifted his head. It was dark. There was no moonlight which could have tinted Draco's face and revealed his truest expressions. All Harry had was the sound of Draco's voice and the faint outline of his profile and darkened features, where black spots made up for Draco's eyes and his mouth lined in different tunnels and levels of gray. He pushed himself up onto his hands, on his right side, and then managed to sit back on his knees, facing Draco, "Let's go find something to eat."

Draco's face heavily fell onto its left cheek, and he glanced in Harry's direction.

"You can't tell me you're tired. You've been sleeping every time I've come in to talk to you."

Draco didn't argue, because at the mention of food, his stomach yearned. He needed something in his stomach, true. He was surprised that he hadn't found his appetite in the last couple of mostly food-less days. It was just that he slept so often that he had kind of been forgetting about food. He had snuck into the kitchen here and there, but not for meals or for anything of substance. He didn't push himself up, however, "I'll get something in the morning."

Harry licked at the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows furrowing down. There was a long pause, "What'd I do?"

Draco blinked, and immediately questioned, "What?"

"You're being icy."

"_Icy_?"

"Yeah, you're being icy with me. Cold. A bastard. Distant. Emotionless—who you used to be, Draco Malfoy of Slytherin."

"I _am_ Draco Malfoy of Slytherin, and I _am_ cold. I am a bastard. I _am_ distant and unfeeling."

Harry scoffed into the pitch blackness of the room. He didn't want to deal with that answer. It was true, he wasn't in the mood to listen to Draco revert back to being the same arrogant, disillusioned prick he had once been. He could hear it in Draco's voice, and it infuriated him. He pushed himself off of the bed, landed on his bare feet and walked around to the foot of the bed, heading for his bookcase, for his journal. He had just put it back before he had woken Draco, but he needed it, again, to write down all of his miserable thoughts. The journal had, originally, been intended for Harry's plans, but it had become much more than that. It had become his only way of staying sane, "Is this what you've been doing for the last five days, Draco? Analyzing your existence, brooding? Telling yourself that you ARE Draco Malfoy, the same Draco Malfoy you've always been? Well, you're fucking NOT, and to sit there and go back on everything you've changed is a really weak thing to do—not only weak, but selfish and... just... _dumb_."

Harry gave a careless wave of his wand over a candelabra at the foot of the bed. He hadn't originally intended to do so. But, he felt strangely pissed off at Draco. Instead of concentrating on getting to his journal, he turned around and faced Draco. He went to say something, but then closed his mouth once the image in front of him settled into his mind. Draco was just laying there, in the same exact position he had been in for a good few minutes. His light eyes, where silver always played on gray, were cold. They were listless. They were dull and blank, and Harry nearly foamed at the mouth, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

The left side of Draco's mouth pulled upward.

Harry watched it. Oh, it was not a friendly grin. It was nasty. Very, very nasty. Very vindictive.

Draco watched Harry, in return.

Harry's brown eyes were so angry. His face was clenched in all of the right ways. There were bones protruding, skin pulled over sharp angles, dark shadows flickering over his face. It wasn't easy to see the very expression of Harry's eyes, because he was turned away from the candelabra, but for a very fleeting second, it was almost as if some fire had been ignited in front of Harry's face, giving Draco a perfect view of the sudden disgust that Harry was feeling.

Still, Draco said nothing.

Harry fought with himself, physically, by continuing to press his lips together and place his hands on his sides as if to soothe himself and keep himself from flipping out. But, he couldn't help it. Why was Draco acting like he was? It was like everything that they had accomplished had gone out the fucking window! It didn't make sense! He had done nothing wrong! Draco just—no, "No," Harry repeated, quietly, with a sigh at himself, and he made himself turn his back to Draco and set his attention back on the bookcase. "You're a bitch, Draco Malfoy."

"A bastard."

Harry turned around from the book-case, "Your name is Draco Malfoy. You belong to Slytherin."

Nothing washed over Draco's face. Still, he was staring at Harry in a way that sent shivers down Harry's spine and a knife stabbing into his gut. He could not explain his disdain and frustrating with what he had walked into. Everything had been fine the last time he had seen Draco—and, then this? He approached the end of the bed, narrowing his eyes at Draco. "Except, your father is not Lucius Malfoy. Your father is Cornwell _Black_. By blood. You're a Slytherin, because your bastard father Lucius Malfoy raised you to be that way. You may have Gryffindor blood in your veins, but you could never feel that, no. You are just as cold as you've ever been, aren't you. Unfeeling. Loveless. Dry. Friendless. Miserable. Rich. Sadistic. Wry."

Draco watched and listened, unblinkingly.

"Have you been putting on a front, then, Malfoy? Malfoy. Malfoy." He paused, snarled his nose and spat, harshly, "_Malfoy_. You know, I think I've missed spitting your name—_Malfoy_. Doesn't it sound right with that little extra bit of disgust thrown in there?" He stared right back at Draco, trying his best not to blink. He was completely trying to pull a reaction out of Draco, but he didn't have to dive far into himself to get material or words. He was pissed at Draco for having reverted right back to the cold bastard he had been, which had never even been real, as they had discussed, because Draco had never hated Harry. But, this Draco Malfoy, Harry was beginning to realize, never had to do anything with him. This side of Draco had to do everything with how he had been raised. "You're miserable."

Draco sat up, fully, his shoulders tensed, "Do you think I care what you're saying to me? I don't."

"Grow a pair, Malfoy." He grabbed his journal and turned back in route for the door, extremely disturbed.

"What's that supposed to mean, Potter?"

Harry stopped.

Draco stared holes through the T-shirt covered back in the distance, "Come on, Potter. Tell me what you think I think."

Harry turned around, slowly, and then just gave a hopeless, half-ass laugh of annoyance, "I'm not playing a game—"

'Fuck you, Harry Potter, because neither am I—get out of here, you jackass."

Harry's jaw dropped, and he approached the bed before he could stop himself, "_I'm_ the jackass?"

Draco, at last, turned his eyes away from Harry, who was standing against the left side of the high bed, leaving a giant gaping whole of space between them. If it hadn't been there, Draco was half-sure Harry would have started at him. But, he wasn't in the best of places, mentally, and he hadn't a reason to deny that. He pushed the covers off of his legs and then pushed himself right off of the bed. He waked around the corner of the bed, with narrowed eyes, and Harry did the same on the other side.

They met, two feet apart, at the center of the foot of the bed.

"The fact is, Potter, everything is about you. This fight is about you. I grew up hearing Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that. Had I been any other ugly wizard kid—like any of your Gryffindor losers or any other damn kid who might have grown up the same way—perhaps things would have been different. But, it's not that way. You're an intricately great part of my life. You were made that way before we were born. You've spent your whole life not liking me, while I spent my whole life just trying to deal with you, and what is so damn bloody great about you. I grew up knowing that your father was a part of my father's life. You were always part of my life, and you were that way before I even met you. It's like... I mean, Potter—you have more of my life than I do, sometimes, because you have so much of _my _god-damn attention! Just get out of here. Go, go find Cornwell, and discuss how you're going to be a bloody pair of heroes. And, when it's all over, you two can go off and leave me with Lucius, who _is_ my father, and Cornwell can be your new father. It's fitting, isn't it? You two are so much alike—Gryffindors. Hell, Cornwell was your father's best friend! I am cold, Potter, and I am mean. I am a bastard, and I hate mud-bloods, and I don't really fucking GIVE a damn about your fight, and THAT is what I've spent the last five days thinking about. I am a Slytherin. I am a bastard. I am Lucius Malfoy's son, and the whole point of this damn fight of yours, I disagree with. I _hate_ mud-bloods! Voldemort may be evil, but he's brilliant. I'd never join his ranks, but he's hardly ever done anything wrong to me—hell, look at the way I grew up. And, then, I find out who Cornwell is, and I think about it, and it doesn't really matter, because I'm not a Gryffindor. I'm not a Black. I was raised a Malfoy, and I was put into Slytherin."

"I've been missing the point the last year. I've been forgetting that I_ am_ me—cold, mean. I don't like _you_. And, I don't want you to win."

Harry's hands were limply at his sides, and all he could do was stare at Draco's face, all over it, with slightly dry lips.

"You go on your way, now, Potter, and I'll go my way."

"It's not about blood, Draco. The fight is far past that. It's about Voldemort abusing his power and killing innocent people."

"Killing mud-bloods, and I don't really care."

"You... don't... care."

Draco stared Harry right on. He took a step closer and sneered, "Yes, Potter, I don't care."

"You don't care about me, either."

"I did. I do. But, I don't care about your fight, Potter, because everything has always ever been about _you_."

"All I am is a fight, Malfoy," Harry hissed back at him. "You've just made that very clear."

Draco's smirk was cold and hard, "We're all _just _something, Potter. I'm _just_ a pawn, and being _only_ a fight is better."

Harry's eyes stayed glued to the spot which had just been occupied by Draco, but which was currently empty of any other presence. Draco had walked around him. He was so serious. He was so calm. It sent shivers of dread through Harry's—Judas's—blood. He didn't know how to process anything Draco had told him. The only thing he felt he was capable of doing was pulling his elbow back and then slamming his hand into Draco's face, and then his stomach, and then his face, again. He was just so angry. He just wanted to hit _something_. But, instead, he calmly turned himself around and saw Draco heading for the bedroom door. He scoffed, loudly, "I can't do this without you, Malfoy."

Draco turned around, with dead eyes, "Potter, I don't want anything to do with your damn fight. You've done everything, your whole life, without me. You're the one who has to bring Voldemort down. That has nothing to do with me. Nothing about Draco Malfoy has anything to do with Harry Potter, do you understand that? It's not the same for us, anymore, Potter. Originally, I thought that the lines had been blurred, because it was war-time, but everything cleared. You will always be a part of who I am—and, I hate that. I have always hated it, because your damn fight tracks back to me, but why? There is no reason. I am _just_ Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, and regardless of if I care about you or not, I don't care about bringing Voldemort down. I don't care about ANYTHING, anymore, because NOTHING makes sense to me. NOTHING. Not who I am. Not what I want. Only who I've been happiest in being, and who I've been happiest as is Draco fucking Malfoy, proud Slytherin, so if you have a problem with that, there is nothing you can do about it."

"And, if Voldemort kills me, first? What then, _Draco Malfoy, proud Slytherin_?" Harry got in Draco's face.

Draco didn't budge, just stared eye to eye with Harry, "He won't."

"If he _did_, Malfoy."

"I don't know, Potter. Is being dead such a bad thing? I'm not sure living is so great, especially when nearly every damn day of your life has been a lie, and you'd rather throw yourself out a window than face the rest of the world. If you feel like I do, Potter, you wouldn't ask me that question. Of course, if you knew anything about me, you'd realize that I don't care about your fight, and why? Because, you've not given a damn to put yourself in my shoes, as you've pointedly made obvious that everyone has never put themselves in your shoes—as if your shoes are so hard, anymore, Harry Potter. Good for you, you have a purpose in life, and it's sad, your parents are dead. But, your life purpose is so much more great than mine. I don't even know my parents. I don't like Lucius. I feel as if I have no idea who Cornwell is, and I don't, and I never have. And, my mother? Well, has she been up to see me? No. Have you? No. Have they? No. Has anyone EVER cared to ask about how Draco MALFOY is, or is it all about Harry Potter? HA, ha, ha, ha, let me LAUGH—so, go on, Potter. Go, leave, go be miserable about how sad your life has been, as if you're the only one who's had a sad life. Go. Avenge. Kill. Be the hero that you are. _I just don't give a damn_."

God, but he did give a damn! _Damnit, Potter! Fuck-you, fuck-you, fuck-you, fuuuuck you!_

Draco slammed the bedroom door in Harry's face, locked it, pointed his wand at the candelabra and let the room fade.

Almost as soon as Draco had fallen asleep was he awoken—just, not physically.

"Hello, Draco Malfoy."

Draco blinked. His heart jumped into his throat.

It was a place Draco had sworn to himself he would never, ever find himself in, again.

The single figure in the room stood up from sitting on a table, "We've never been introduced, and for a reason."

A hand reached out to Draco, and Draco stared down at it.

"I'm Lord Voldemort."

Draco looked up from the hand.

"I don't bite."

Draco said nothing.

"Oh—cold, Draco Malfoy. So cold."

"I am cold," Draco stated, and held his head high, his eyes sinking into those opposite his. It was a thrill that Draco could have never imagined. It sent sparks through his body in the worst way possible, and it was so terrible that it nearly felt good. It felt good to feel so emotionally capable in Voldemort's presence, which he had never been in. He knew this had to do with the last conversation he had had with Harry, but that just made it so much more sweet, satisfying and controlled. At the same time, he immediately took back every word he had said to Harry. Harry's fight was Draco's fight, and Draco's fight was Harry's fight. Draco stood tall, with only Harry on his awakened mind. It gave him a little extra something, inside of him, to pull out bravery and smugness that he never thought one Draco Malfoy could ever possess in front of Voldemort—a man most people quivered in front of if they even survived long enough to react. "One time will I tell you this, and one time only, and don't try my patience."

Voldemort waited, patiently.

"I am not interested."

Voldemort seemed like he had just been set on fire with water, his eyes glinting furiously, "Even colder, Draco Malfoy."

Draco did nothing. Everyone seemed to have the same opinion of him that day, good and evil alike. _Cold_.

"I like cold. And, I like stubborn. I like pure disregard for my existence from pretty young men."

"You have no power over me," Draco assured, lazily.

Voldemort's eyes were nearly enthralled, and his expression echoed it, "You're frighteningly brave."

"Yes," Draco returned, arrogantly, still unwavering, somehow, "I am, after-all, a Gryffindor."

Voldemort's eyes flashed, "You are, are you."

Draco smirked at him, carelessly, "Do you know what else I am?"

"The son of Cornwell Black, is that what you're going to tell me?"

No, "I am not a sad, searching soul looking for somewhere to belong. I know where I belong."

"Oh, do you?"

"Oh, I do, and I know to whom I belong," Draco assured of his loyalties. His mother. His father. Lucius. Dickie. _Potter_. "And, I know where you belong, and before I die, I'll smile down at the knowledge that you are burning in hell."

Voldemort said nothing, just backed away from him one step, with a pair of enchanting eyes Draco could not explain.

"Making death wishes, are we? And so early in conversation, too."

"I do not wish you dead." He paused. "I wish you destroyed and infinitely suffering. Morsmoreda."

Draco promptly woke, and just as quickly was he off of the bed and shaking. He hadn't been shaking in dream-state, no, but he was definitely feeling a strange buzzing in his veins, in his blood. He grabbed his wand from his pocket and pointed it in the direction of one of the candle-holders on the wall, muttered a spell and was relieved when the room was so brightly lit that it looked like it was day time. He spun around in a circle, with his wand out, just for his own sake and to rid of his own paranoia. When he saw nothing and no one, he sighed and lowered his wand. He sat down on the end of the bed, pocketed his wand, and paced himself with his hands on his knees.

Regardless of how depressed and lost he was feeling, he hadn't actually meant what he had said to Harry, however long ago it might have been. He hadn't ever wanted to praise Voldemort. It had just come out of his mouth in the wrong way. Of course he cared about Harry's fight. Of course he cared about innocent people being murdered. He had just been needing to release some of the bottled-up emotions that he had been harboring for the last few days, and Harry had just found the wrong moment to wake him up. Waking Draco up was never, truly, a good idea, because it always had different consequences—most of them not so great!

Draco found himself standing in the doorway of the sitting room about thirty minutes later, holding an offering of peace in his left hand and his wand in his right hand. He had been searching for Harry for a few minutes, after he had searched through the kitchens in attempt to find something sweet—something that might have made up for the fact that there was no birthday cake in the house. He had found something. It wasn't quite up to par, but it would do. He walked into the room and closed the door behind him.

Harry looked over his left shoulder.

Draco held out the treat, in the dim room, where only about two candles were lit beside Harry.

"You know I'm in here, don't you?" Harry asked, still more than agitated. "You might want to leave."

Draco walked over, innocently, "I don't want to leave, Potter. I came to say... Happy Birthday, and here."

Harry's eyes slipped down to the contents of the plate Draco was holding out. He blinked, "What's that?"

"A doughnut with pudding on it."

"A doughnut with _pudding_ on it?" Harry asked, more skeptically, and tried to hold back a smile. "You put pudding on a doughnut... for me?"

"All right, _look_. Potter, you can make fun of it or you can take it."

Harry snorted with soft laughter, as Draco turned to leave. He leaned over and caught the back of Draco's shirt. "Stay—and, I am hungry, so I'll take that." He stood up from leaning over the arm-chair, laughing as Draco turned around with some sort of strange expression on his face. Harry didn't let go of the back of the shirt, his fingertips lost in the material. It was cool and soft. Once he was standing slightly behind Draco, and he was sure Draco wasn't going to try and flee with his... um, makeshift cake, Harry let go. He reached around and took the plate. "Vanilla pudding, my favorite."

Draco slowly pivoted, with both of his hands still slightly elevated in front of his body. He watched Harry dip his finger into the pudding and then place it in his mouth, between his lips, with his cheeks sucked in. He glanced right at Draco, and Draco felt oddly shaky. No, it must have been his imagination. All Harry had done was look at him! Just no certain way, was all. Harry sat back down on the lounge he had been relaxing on, so Draco walked over and sat across from him, silently, playing with his hands after pocketing his wand, "For future reference, Potter, it's not nice to wake me up."

Harry swallowed down a decent mouthful of pudding. God, it was good, "I figured—albeit, I figured it rather late."

"Yeah," Draco said, under his breath. "I was a bit dramatic." A _bit_? Yeah, a whole fucking _CHUNK_ dramatic.

"No," Harry said, quietly, bravely looking up from his doughnut, which he had not yet attempted to work on. Draco had really been super-nice with the pudding, and Harry was somewhat obsessed with it, because he hadn't had it in quite some time. It was excellent. Sweet. It was hitting all of the right spots when it was in his mouth. His eyes fixed onto Draco, after he took one last swallow. He lowered the plate, with both of his hands, and rested it on his knees, fixing his attention on Draco, fully, interested in the opposite expression. He looked so... apologetic. "I didn't know you felt how you do."

"I don't feel that way."

"Don't you? You hate dirty blood. You don't support Voldemort, but you support his stance. You're a Malfoy, not a Black. You're a pure-hearted Slytherin, and Gryffindor blows."

Draco squinted, but Harry did no such thing, just kept watching him, "I just needed to vent, Potter."

"_Vent_? You told me you could care less if I die."

"Harry, I could care less about a lot of things, but amongst those things I do care about, you're pretty close to the top."

Harry held out his plate, "Want some?"

"No, I made it for you."

Harry smiled to himself, pulling the plate back onto his knees, "You can still have some." He paused. "C'mere." He dropped his eyes from Draco, breaking the intense staring he had been partaking in. He motioned his head to his left, to the rest of the lounge. There was plenty of space, and though Harry was hungry, he wasn't sure if he could devour a gigantic doughnut with vanilla pudding on it. He could eat both, separately, for day and days, but, together, it was almost too sweet for him to fully comprehend. "The thing about your dad—Cornwell, I mean. You don't feel that way, do you?"

Draco carefully sat down next to Harry. He paused, at first, and then turned his serious attention to his right, "What way?"

"No, you..." Harry hesitated. He didn't know if he wanted to ask. Maybe Draco was just handing him a card, here, and on that card was just a simple line of excusing himself from everything he had said earlier. If he was just venting, surely Harry could have left it alone? But, where had his words come from? Had Draco had so much practice in perfecting his skills of verbal lashings and monologues that what came out of him was that of a role? An act? Words he pulled down out of no where, untrue and not, at all, reflective of what he actually felt?

"Fuck you, Potter. You're not getting my dad. Sorry."

Harry turned his face to Draco, a few seconds later, because he had been giving himself time to mentally laugh.

Draco was smirking at him, pointedly, with his light hair pushed back off of his forehead, suddenly.

"Taking that back, are you?" Harry laughed, impressed with Draco's calm, quick mind-reading tactics.

"If you let me."

"I'll think about it."

Draco smiled, leaning down over Harry's shoulder, snugly, looking at the plate, "Is it actually edible?"

Harry snorted, "Luckily, yes. If it wasn't, we wouldn't be speaking."

"Well, I can't cook, Potter, so next time we get into a fight, I'm going to need to know how to apologize—"

"Here's an idea, Malfoy—just tell me you're sorry, and there will be no need for... _pudding... cake_."

They both looked at the treat sitting on Harry's plate, as he held it up in the air in front of them. For a quiet moment, they both examined it. Still uneaten, but with marks from where Harry's fingers had been lashing for pudding samples, it looked quite delicious. Almost too good to be ruined and destroyed. It looked that way because of what it actually was and why it had been made—hell, who had made it in an attempt to apologize to who. It was a symbol. A milestone. A very strange happening in the lives of theirs, as they sat there, in the mostly-darkened room, side by side, staring at it.

Draco snapped his attention onto Harry's profile, "I can't apologize to you after those sort of... blow-ups."

Harry grinned and looked at him, suddenly, "It's funny, you know, because I don't think I would accept those apologies."

"Next time I'll make another doughnut cake, or something else just as sugar-filled and quick, but flawless."

"Surprise me."

"I will."

Harry laughed, and he, at last, tore off a piece of the doughnut. He reached it across his chest and held it out for Draco. He took it, not even a second later, leaving Harry's fingertips coated in dripping vanilla pudding. Amused, Harry pulled himself off a piece and rested back against the lounge. He looked at Draco, who was to his left, and held up his piece of doughnut. When Draco went to pop his in his mouth, Harry gave him a sharp elbow, "What are you doing—you can't eat it, not yet."

Draco nearly dropped his doughnut piece from the sudden demand and sharp elbow, "What the fuck, Gryffindor!"

Harry smiled to himself, smugly, "We have to make a pact. Here, now. On these doughnuts. They are our witnesses."

"You're aware that the doughnuts aren't capable of being witnesses, aren't you? Seeing as how they are... _doughnuts_."

Harry smiled, even more, as Draco's eyes set so happily onto his, innocent and completely genuine, "Uh—I realize."

"As long as you're acknowledging the blurred line of reality between—"

"Shut up."

Draco rested right back next to Harry, his shoulder slightly overlapping Harry's, "Fine, Potter. What's this pact?"

"Pact is—next year, on my birthday, it's just going to be you and me—and, these things."

Draco watched as Harry tapped his piece of doughnut to his own, "That's not a pact."

"The pact is—we spend my birthday together until one of us dies or gets married to someone the other hates."

Draco snorted with laughter, easily, and nodded, "Deal, Potter. I like the way you think."

"Yeah, well," Harry coolly responded, forcing it. He nudged Draco's shoulder with his own. "You like me, period."

"I like you, question mark."

"Shut up," Harry laughed, again, just as playfully.

Draco half-grinned at him.

Harry lifted his piece of doughnut up and tapped it to Draco's, "To Malfoy and Potter. May they survive."

"To Potter and Malfoy—may they eventually put away their angst, get drunk, and fuck."

"That, too."

Draco looked at Harry, once, before he shoved his entire piece of doughnut into his mouth.

Harry paused, amused, and then he mused, at Draco, "You liked that answer too much, Malfoy."

Draco smirked, his mouth full. He wasn't even going to attempt to say anything.

Harry took a small bite of his own doughnut, watching as Draco began to chew. There was a lot in his mouth, Harry knew, because it had been a rather large piece. He also knew that Draco would have responded to him had there not been the risk of showering them both with wet little crumbs of doughnut and muffled words. It gave them both a moment to gather their thoughts or their questionings. There was no surprise with the way that the conversation had gone. Things had been developing. What that actually entailed or meant, Harry was entirely clear on. However, Draco's mouth had taken way too much of Harry's attention over the last few minutes, and Draco had probably sensed it. Whatever was going on in Draco's head, Harry wondered if it was remotely like the things swirling through his brain—fearlessly, curiously.

Draco, eventually, swallowed, and then glanced at Harry, again, from looking at a bookcase, "I just like answers, is all."

Harry's cheeks began to ache. He looked away from Draco, simply, with a small shake of his head, "My mistake."

"You'd want to be careful with those. You're only allowed so many of them until I stop forgiving."

Harry lifted his arm up from behind Draco's back, suddenly. When Draco had fallen back against the back of the lounge, Harry's arm had been resting against the couch in that same area. It hadn't been awkward. They were used to strange, innocent, boyish touches of arms. They had been sleeping together. It wasn't like they hadn't woken up to mornings when they were sleeping side by side—usually with Draco's entire arm overlapping Harry's. He didn't know how it always happened. It just did. But, suddenly, his arm wanted freedom, but only for one purpose. He lifted it up into the air, and then dropped it down around Draco's shoulders. His wrist rested down over Draco's shoulder, and his fingertips dangled in the medium air of the room. He leaned in and up, suddenly, because he had the advantage of positioning, and he pressed his mouth, fully, on the soft skin right beside Draco's mouth—close. It was close. CLOSE. He quickly pulled his lips away and set back into the couch, as if it had not happened.

Draco looked at him. Once. With a hard smirk, a few seconds later, "What was that?"

"What was what?"

Draco squinted, "Okay, I'll let it slide this time."

"_One_ time."

"You're lucky I hadn't gone to turn my head."

"Or unlucky."

Draco gasped. Not dramatically. It just sort of left his mouth, and he muttered, with a strange laugh, "_Wow_, Potter."

"Leave me alone, it's my birthday!"

Draco snorted at him, as Harry looked away, completely and totally flushed of color and bashful, "It _is_ your birthday."

"I refuse to turn my head, because you just said that with a tone. Don't try anything, or I'll hex—"

"You'll hex my balls off—old threat Potter, one of which is no longer worthy of our friendship. Or... whatever... it is."

"A friendship."

Draco smiled, "I couldn't have possibly meant anything else, Potter."

"I was just making sure—"

"Are you going to kiss me or not? I swear, you're fucking killing me here, Potter."

"WHAT!" Harry nearly haggled, finding himself suddenly staring at Draco. "How do you—I don't want to—what are you on!"

"Oh, come off it. It's me, Potter. We're naturally attracted to each other. We need to get it over with so we can move on."

"Move on! You're delirious, Malfoy! I don't have those kind of—" Words, damnit! He needed to move! He needed to—!

"I don't know what's more amusing—you denying me or you denying yourself when you have the opportunity to _try_ it."

"I like teasing about it, Malfoy, obviously, but I wouldn't! I'm not gay—for anyone! I'm totally not—"

"You don't have to be GAY, Potter. I'm not gay. And, I know you want to kiss me._ You stare at my mouth_."

"I do not."

Draco watched as Harry pushed himself up off of the couch, with raised eyebrows, "_Wow_."

"Don't _wow_ me, Malfoy. Okay—you know what, I do want to kiss you!"

Draco watched Harry, who was standing five feet away from Draco, who was still relaxed and intrigued, "What?"

"I do," Harry blurted out. "But, I won't. Never will. Can't. Could not. Will not."

"I'm going to go ahead and ask you what idiotic reasoning you have for not kissing me—go, give it to me, Potter."

"I like you too much, Malfoy—I mean, you know what we are. So do I. There are no words—I don't want to—"

"Kissing me would hardly fuck it up, Potter. We'd get it out of the way—"

"Yeah, Malfoy, and what if we didn't? What if it's... good-great-_mesmerizing_-perfect—_fantastic_?"

"Then it would be fanstastic."

"It's not as easy as it being what it is, Malfoy. There'd be more to it."

"Neither of us are clingy that way. Our situation prevents that level of attachment—we're already disturbingly close, aren't we, Potter? Tell me you were ever like this with Weasley, and I won't believe you. You are you, Harry. And, I am me. We are us. Obviously—if you want to kiss me, just kiss me. I want it. I welcome it."

"You shouldn't be saying this to me, not right now. We can't go down this path—no, Malfoy. _No_."

"What path? You want to keep denying you're attracted to me? Fine. All we'd be doing is experimenting."

"I don't experiment! That sounds like some cheap-out that idiot teenagers use to make themselves feel normal!"

"Fine, Potter, then it wouldn't be an experiment. We'd kiss—and, we'd kiss hard. And deep. And wet. We'd want it."

Harry clutched his head between his hands, completely mind-boggled, "I'm going to leave, now."

"Fuck you, Potter—the day you kiss me, this wait better be worth it."

"No, fuck you, Malfoy—and, why would I have to be the one to kiss _you_? Why wouldn't you kiss me?"

"Because you're the one who's trying to juggle the world. You're the one who doesn't want it—"

"I never said I didn't want it, Malfoy."

Draco stood up and turned around, to face Harry, this time not smiling or amused, "If you wanted it, you'd take it."

"I don't want to take it!"

"Why?"

"Because!"

"That is _not_ an answer! That is not a_ reason_! You're fucking yourself over here, Potter—we could have already done it!"

"I don't want to do it, Malfoy!"

"What are you so afraid of, Potter? You want it. But, you want it later? How does that work?"

"If I knew the answer to that, don't you think I'd give it to you? You should know I have issues, by now—! Don't move."

Draco smiled, "I'll leave this alone, if you'll answer me one question."

"Fine," Harry blurted out.

"The reason you won't kiss me isn't because you have... feelings for me...?"

"You're my friend. Exactly."

Draco shook his head, "Nicely played, Potter—but, I have to keep my word, so I won't point out how you just side-stepped the issue. Thanks for that honesty."

"You're welcome. I pride myself on honesty."

Draco laughed. He sat back down on the couch, "You're a cruel arse. Come on." He lifted up the doughnut.

Harry joined him in about five seconds.

Draco looked at him.

Harry looked at the plate, "Do you really want to go separate ways?"

"We already covered this, Potter. I was venting. Blabbing. Ranting. Lying. Trying to get a rise out of you."

"For your own sake."

"Yes."

"You're just delightful, Malfoy."

Draco rested back into the couch, with a demure smile, "God, we'd have explosive sex, Potter."

"Yeah, I know." Harry licked the pudding off of his index finger.

"Blatant."

"I know," Harry repeated, smirking coyly, with one last glance at Draco. "Are we done talking about our twisted side, Malfoy?"

"If you're done."

"Polite."

"I know."

Harry smiled to himself, lifting his finger from a slip of pudding he had collected. He went to move it back to his mouth, but his wrist was being led away from his mouth, and Draco was moving, too. His eyes flickered upward, in the moment, instinctively. He just stared and watched. The first couple of seconds seemed to have him stuck in time, where he could do nothing but view what was going on around him. Draco's lips had parted open, he was leaned forward a bit, his eyes attached down onto Harry's hand. A hot sensation wiped out the coldness of the pudding, just as the pudding, itself, was licked and sucked away, with a gentle, hot suction, which had meshed down over just the right amount of his fingertip to cause his entire stomach to knot, his heart to jump into his throat, his mouth to fall open and his shoulders to rise with his meaningful intake of breath.

It was wet contact, as Draco's lips closed over the tip, more fully, and he gave a soft suck.

Seconds later, casually, Draco lifted his face and rested back into the couch, with the plate in hand, "The pudding is good."

Harry blinked.

Draco didn't look at him, at first. But, after a bite and swallow of doughnut, he did, lightly, "Are you there?"

"No."

"Okay—well, when you get back, let yourself know that Draco Malfoy is fascinated with your fingers."

"I had no idea.'

Draco dipped his finger into the pudding. He placed the plate on the lounge, to his left, and then concentrated on his finger, innocently. He suddenly turned, however, and slashed down Harry's—Judas's—cheekbone with the sugary-sweetness they both seemed to take comfort in. Draco had always preferred vanilla over chocolate, which many of his Slytherin friends had thought was ludicrous. Most people in his life had, at least. It was fascinating that the only person to have never questioned his appreciation for vanilla was one Harry Potter. Yes, Harry Potter. _There_.

Draco's hand fell from Harry's face, under his chin, and then to Harry's other cheek. Draco leaned into the cheek closest, that he had access to see, because it was facing him. His left hand molded, strongly, over the right side of Harry's face, and he pressed toward him, at the same time as he indulged himself the honor and openness to lean forward, with hungrily curious lips, and kiss right beside Harry's mouth, like Harry had done to him, earlier. Fuck that sort of kiss!

It was teasing.

It was mean.

It was _perfect_.

Harry said nothing.

Draco peeked his eyes open, to see that Harry's eyes were closed—yes. Yes, yes, _yes_, "Potter."

"No, no, no—"

Draco's lips moved up the soft, warm skin, until his bottom lip skimmed across something cold and something wet. Something vanilla that he had placed there. It tasted good, but Draco suddenly wished it were not there, because the vanilla was tainting his moment. He just wanted to make Harry feel good, for fuck's sake. He didn't want Judas. He wanted Harry. He wanted to kiss him, and clutch him, rough him up a little, get him frustrated, get him high, get him hungry and powerful, riled up and demanding. He wanted Harry to explode with all of the things, at the same time, that Draco knew Harry was. He wanted every emotion, at one time—but, no, he would never get that. No, but he did like tasting the vanilla on the skin—it was sweet. He kissed it away, in three kisses, and then rested his cheek bone, squarely, against Harry's, so it was bone to bone, "I miss you, Potter. I never thought I'd miss you. It's not the same with you as him—I just want you—I mean, not just for the sake of how that sounds, but for everything—the friendship, most importantly. This isn't you—is that what you're waiting on? It's killing me, Potter—I know you want it. You know I want it. To _try_ it. Get it over with. And, laugh about it in two months."

Harry rested his cheek against Draco's, but he never answered.

He didn't have to. The affection of their cheeks pressing together was an answer all in itself.

"You know I want you, don't you?"

Harry's eyes rolled up in his head. His lips were dry. They hadn't succeeded in ever closing.

Draco felt _so_ good.

They felt _so _good, close together.

"_Don't you?_"

Harry's eyelashes flickered open, barely, in the moment. Draco kept nuzzling his nose and lips to Harry's ear.

"I know."

Excellent. Draco pulled himself back, saw that Harry was smirking, not at all awkward or shy, and smiled, "So."

"So."

"Happy birthday, Potter. May you never find a wife I hate."

Harry laughed, "Even if I do, you'll still have your cats."

Draco grinned, cheekily, at him, before he gave an open nod, as if to admit he had asked for _that_ comeback.

"Here's hoping we don't die. If I do, and you're still alive, make these for the gathering afterward."

"No."

Harry elbowed Draco.

"Don't elbow me."

"I didn't elbow you."

They looked at each other.

Draco was the first to smile, before he looked away, "You're lucky it's your birthday, or I'd have you hexed by now."

"Or unlucky—no, wait. It doesn't work here, does it?"

"No," Draco snorted, having been giving Harry a strange look. "Seriously, though—happy seventeenth."

"Best one I've had in awhile. I have befriended my school rival."

"No, he befriended you."

Harry sighed, "Has anyone ever told you that you're very difficult?"

"I'm not difficult, just honest. See, Potter, _I pride myself on honesty_."

"Point taken, Gryffindor."

"Shut your mouth, Potter."

Harry threw himself onto Draco, playfully, so Draco couldn't get up and brood. He squeezed Draco, "_You_ mean Slytherin _you_!"

Draco rolled his eyes, resting back. He casually patted Harry's upper back, amused, "Potter, get off of me."

"Sorry, can't," Harry immediately shut down, pulling his face back so his nose was in front of Draco's. "I'm feeling _affectionate_."

"You're going to regret it in five point zero twenty-five seconds."

Harry waited five point zero twenty-five seconds.

Draco rolled his eyes, "You're going to regret this in two point four seconds."

Harry waited two point four seconds.

"Three point two seconds and you're done, Potter! DONE!"

Three point two seconds later, Draco tackled Harry onto the couch, hard, and then onto the floor, where they both snorted with laughter and separated. Harry sat up, nursing an elbow, which had hit the wooden floor, and Draco pushed himself up, wrapped his arms around his knees, and smirked, fully.

"Don't mess with me, Potter."

"You're such an arse," Harry continued to laugh, in good spirits.

"Rightfully, as I am a combination of Slytherin and Gryffindor—explains a lot about me, you know."

"How do you figure, _oh mighty_?"

"Take our entire friendship, Potter. Think about it. Digest it. Lick it. Swallow it. Throw it away."

"Lick it?"

"Yes, lick it. Taste it."

"The sugar has gone to your brain."

"That's a myth, Potter. Sugar does absolutely nothing to hype people up—it's an excuse."

"Smart, too. You're a prize, Malfoy."

"I don't want to be a prize. I want to be a trophy."

"A trophy?"

Their conversation was extremely serious, but they were both hiding obviously knowledgeable laughter.

"Yes, a trophy. I want to be a trophy boyfriend."

Harry smiled, "You already are, Malfoy. Honestly. Don't you listen to... everyone? Everyone raves about you."

"I said I want to be a trophy boyfriend, Potter. But, I have high standards. The person would need to be brilliant."

"Oh, I see."

"Yes, and I would have to see a future with it. You know, sex. Rock and roll."

"No kids?"

"Kids. Them, too, but not until I'm ready to stop sleeping around on my significant other."

Harry tried not to laugh, "I don't think she would like that very much."

"Me either, so she would have to be someone who would understand my need for commitment, first and foremost."

"Yes."

"And, she would have to be brilliant—I mean, beyond powerful."

"That's limiting your choices!"

"Even so, I won't budge on brilliance. She also has to be sexy."

"Of course."

"I don't really care about hair color or eye color—I'd prefer curves or a bit of solidity, as I don't want to be holding bones at night."

"Brilliant, beyond powerful, curvaceous, sexy and understands _you_—yeah, sure you're going to find _that_."

"She also would have to be just the right height—you know, so we would piece together."

"Yes, that's, er—very important."

Draco set his eyes onto Harry, fully, and silenced himself for a brief moment, "She'd also have to be a man."

Harry smiled, softly, unthreateningly, with lifted eyebrows. Wow. He felt suddenly proud, "Really, Malfoy? You've decided?"

"Yeah," Draco admitted, under his breath, with a shrug. "I'm gay."

Harry laughed, hard, at the way Draco lazily sighed the confession, "Oh, God, what would I do without you?"

"Die."

"Scarily enough, that's probably true."

"What about you, Potter? What is your dream woman like?"

"She has a head."

Draco smiled, "Nice."

"I try."


	16. Pristinely Planned Betrayal

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note**: Oh, I made you wait for this one. I'm sorry! I've been lazy on updating. I won't say anything more. I'll just let you read. However, I do have a response to a review (Dracoluver) that I typed up, and then realized that I didn't have an e-mail to respond to! Dude, let me know your e-mail address! I typed a big, long reply! Don't worry, it's not bad! Anyway, guys, please enjoy! My apologies for being lazy, and my thanks for reading and leaving reviews.

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Sixteen

Pristinely Planned Betrayal

It was the middle of August before Harry had time to realize the days had been passing by. He had been incredibly busy doing absolutely nothing, It wasn't his fault that the days passed by rather quickly and, coincidentally, he slept until three and went to sleep at six in the morning. He hadn't been out of number twelve Grimmauld in about twenty days, and he had far since lost his mind because of this. He spent most of his time staring out the windows of different rooms, and when it rained, he would pace from room to room to see how differently the rain looked on the different windows on the different sides of the building. He wasn't allowed outside. Draco was allowed outside, but Harry? No! He tried to get out. He tried to sneak out, even in the middle of the night! Someone was always, ALWAYS there to catch him trying to do so. He had given up, after the tenth night of trying to take a nice little walk in the back yard, which wasn't very big to begin with. Plus, it was fenced in.

No, apparently, even with the fence there, Harry was in too much danger.

Well, that was the excuse that was used.

Harry knew the truth. The real reason was that they thought he was a flight risk—that he would do something stupid, without thinking it through. Even if he had never mentioned doing so, Dumbledore knew him well enough to know he wasn't going to just sit on his hands if he had the option of not doing so. Yes, Dumbledore had made sure that Harry was forced to sit on his hands, at night and during the day, rain or shine, alone or not alone. Surprisingly, Harry hadn't missed being outdoors much. It was a hot summer, and he preferred the air-conditioning.

Aside from that, Draco never went outside when Harry was around. He would stay inside, as if pointedly. He didn't go outdoors much, anyway, that Harry knew. And, Harry did know, because half of the time, he sat in the room they shared and stared out at the back of the house, and when Draco would go outside, Harry would open the window and scare the wits out of Draco by screaming something at him when he was enjoying some random, quiet moment. After the third time, he should have seen it coming, but still, Harry managed to get him at the right moments. That or Draco had just been playing along, as if to pity Harry.

It was a rainy day, that fourteenth of August. Harry was sitting on the ledge of the wooden window of the bedroom. It was wide enough for him to sit on, but not nearly wide enough for it to be luxurious or comfortable, which was why he had put a pillow under his bottom. He the window wide open, and he had his right knee pulled up to his bare chest, and the toe of his left foot resting on the wooden floor of the room.

"What are you looking at?" Draco asked, having just walked into the room. He wasn't surprised to see Harry sitting just where he was. They were together a good amount of the time, even if they weren't talking to each other. They wound up in the same rooms, or just in the bedroom, while Draco read and Harry stared out the window. Surprisingly, there hadn't been any arguments, and when either felt agitated, which wasn't often, he would leave the room to give the other space.

Harry turned his eyes away from staring out at a rain-saturated bright green tree-leaf about twenty feet from the window. It was beautiful when it rained, he had decided. Everything glistened. Everything was renewed. Trees were rejuvenated. The grass was fed to make itself greener. The flowers sung more brightly—yeah, sung more brightly! The flowers! Hey, after spending so much time staring at nothing but the outdoors, he had pretty much noticed every single detail of the backyard and associated ten descriptive words with each feature. He had even named three separate patches of grass which were slightly lighter shades than the rest of the yard.

"Fido," Harry answered, with a laugh, as his eyes landed on a familiar face not far from his own.

Draco leaned over Harry, with his upper body, which made Harry stretch out his inclined knee, a bit, to accommodate to the new position. Draco's fingers clasped over the outside ledge of the windowsill that Harry was sitting on, where it was wet, and he put his weight against Harry, carelessly, while his eyes knowingly moved to the only patch of mismatched grass to the left of their view, "_Shockingly_, Potter, Fido looks exactly the same."

Harry grinned, lifting his left hand from his stomach. He draped his left arm around Draco's back, just for the hell of it. Boy-touching hadn't been very rare, especially within the last week or so. Everything was little touches, shoves or affectionate slaps. A boundary of awkwardness had let itself go, because they were always in close quarters. This spoke the truth about their relationship: they were getting closer. They were close enough to not be awkward around each other. They were friends. Not just... friends, but good friends, who spent Saturday nights sitting around with older Ministry members, ignoring them and kicking each other in the calves until the other decided he didn't want to play, anymore, and withdrew his limbs.

"Shockingly, Malfoy, you are_ wrong_," Harry informed him.

"Have I told you? I love when you compliment me. My soul boils with warmth, and I feel as if I can do anything."

Harry rolled his eyes, as Draco looked at him, smirking. He ignored Draco's dramatic feed of emotion and looked back out at Fido—which, actually, had been becoming his favorite patch of grass to watch, as it got smaller and smaller as the days went on by. There had, originally, been quite a few patches of mismatched grass, but Harry had fixed that up with some bored wand-work, leaving only three to observe and watch. Oh, his summer was _so_ exciting—confusing, troublesome, in time of war. He couldn't help. He couldn't even leave the house! He felt selfish, and, therefore, hated thinking about what was going on outside of number twelve, "I've been taking swatch captures with my wand. Since Tuesday, Fido has gone up three values of green."

Draco pulled himself up, gave Harry one strange glance, and then turned away.

Harry glared at his back, not truly meaning it, "Stop making fun of me."

"Did I say anything?" Draco asked, with a laugh, as he turned back to Harry, from standing over the desk they shared. Literally, they shared it. Draco got one side and Harry got the other. It wasn't a very small desk, either, but rather a large, chunky, wooden piece that Harry had told Draco was found at the site of an old shipwreck in an emptied lake. Draco had believed it for three days before mentioning it to Remus Lupin, who looked at him as if he were mad, which ignited a ten minute session of Draco beating Harry around the house with a pillow, as they had agreed not to hex each other while indoors—it could cause a lot of trouble. "No!"

Harry watched him, pulling his right knee back to his chest. He wrapped his right arm around it and pulled his spine straight, away from resting against the side of the window-frame. He saw the way Draco was smiling at him. It was trademark. Brilliant. It was a smile—innocent, but an all-too-amused smirk if Harry looked at it for longer than a glance. It was an illusion! Harry didn't know how Draco managed it, but he did, "Oh, and you don't think I hear the snide remarks about Fido from the roundtable at dinner?" They had taken to calling the Order members the "round-table."

Draco plopped down onto his wooden chair, opening up a book, "I never peeped a word about Fido, Potter!"

Harry rolled his eyes and rested back against the wooden window-frame, "It must have been your alter-ego."

"My alter-ego is a porn star. Taking this into consideration, I would care less about _Fido_."

Harry squinted, turning his eyes away from the gray, cloudy, overcast sky and back into the dim room, "..."

Draco looked at him, smiled, and then looked right back down at his book.

Harry grinned to himself and looked back out the window. He adored Draco. Somehow. It had happened. A camaraderie that he'd never had, before, had shown itself. Before, he had trusted Draco, but there had been this wavering line of shakiness between them. But, that line had stopped squiggling. It was hard, now. Solid, strong, straight. Whatever was thrown between them didn't throw rocks at their line and break it apart. He trusted Draco with his entire mind, body and spirit. Oh, and his heart. His head, as well—just, everything. He, also, knew he'd throw down his life for Draco's. Crazy though it was, it was the realization of this, weeks earlier, that had brought Harry to acknowledgment about being okay with the fact that his friendship with Draco was tipping the scales over that of his friendship with school-mates he had known seven years in a matter of a couple months.

"When was the last time you took a shower?"

Harry snorted, staring up at the sky, relaxed, with the back of his head against the window-frame, "This morning, why?"

"No, you just smelled good."

"Yeah, I couldn't find a bar of soap—_Draco_—so I opted for body-wash."

Draco bit into the back of his right hand to keep from laughing, his back turned to Harry. He was holding his pen in the fingertips of his left hand, where he had been writing down a list of things that he needed to do in a leather-bound notebook he had been using. Every night, Harry would sit and write in his journal, and after a week of watching him do so, Draco demanded himself a journal and had someone go buy him one, as it was far too dangerous to go to Diagon Alley himself. For anyone. It was way more dangerous than it had ever been, before. He had taken to writing, too, to pass the time, and was almost done with his first notebook, because he wrote in it so much. Thoughts, poems—not in poem form, but rather in form of his thoughts—tiny sketches, lists, rants, raves, scribbles...random things.

Draco peeked over his left shoulder.

Harry was smiling at him. His top teeth were such a perfectly straight vision between two upturned lips. He dropped it.

Draco turned, in his chair, to face Harry. He threw himself back against the back of his chair and tossed his quill to his right, back onto the desk. He didn't feel like writing. He didn't really feel like doing anything, which was a change, because usually he felt like doing something and mentally fumed when he was restricted in doing so. He pushed his shoes off, on the floor, and then pulled his left foot up onto his chair with him. Still, Harry was looking at him, searching him for nothing and everything at the same time, "_My_ body-wash?"

Harry laughed, "You're an arse. Shut up."

Draco laughed, too, and rested his chin down on his knee, "You do smell good."

"It's called being clean—but, I think what smells good is the garden right below the window."

There hadn't been any use of body-wash, and there _had_ been soap.

Their lies were easily spotted by the other. They were so close, in living quarters, that they had been reading each other. Nothing deep, just simple things. They spent most of their time doing absolutely nothing that they had taken to learning more about each other, just by default. They knew what each other did when they were bored. What was said when the other was bored. Nervous ticks. Defense mechanisms—hell, the way one breathed when he was asleep—even the sound, rhythm and speed of their quills to parchment.

Draco laughed, "Yes, you did smell rather flowery."

"You look flowery."

Draco laughed, against his knee, his lips pressed together, and then he took in a deep breath, "God, I'm so bored, Potter. I could cry History-of-Magic tears times fifty. Fuck, I'd kill to be in History of Magic. It's lesser torture."

Harry groaned and finally fell off of the window-sill, putting his weight onto his left foot. He dropped his right foot to the floor, too, agreeing with Draco's sentencing of himself. History of Magic DID sound like an exciting event, anymore. He had been staring at the window for most of the drowsy morning and into the mid-day mark. It was only about twelve-thirty. He had gone to sleep early the night before, somehow, so he had been up at the crack of dawn. He heavily walked toward Draco, and when he reached the desk, he turned around and pushed his body up, with his elbows, until he sat on the top of it, turned toward Draco, "We could play a game."

"What'll it be this time? Twenty-questions gone horribly wrong, _AGAIN_? I Spy? Who-Can-Keep-His-Eyes-Open-The-Longest? Name-That-Hex? Tabloid-True-or-False, the Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy Edition?" Draco proposed, lazily, and rested the back of his head back against his large, comfortable chair. It was his favorite place to sit in the whole house. Not only was it comfortable, but he watched Harry, so much, right across from him, silently writing away in his journal, without ever hiding away what he was writing in case Draco could see. It was a small thing, but it meant the world to Draco. All of the small things did.

Harry sitting on his side of the desk and looking at him for an answer to cure their boredom was a small delight, too.

Harry watched him. Draco's eyes were staring out the window, now, so hazy with ill-regard of activity, "You okay?"

Draco glanced at him, after a couple of unresponsive seconds, "I want to go to the manor."

Harry hung his head.

Silence settled between them. It was a sad silence, and Draco didn't take his eyes off of Harry's reaction.

Harry's eyelashes flickered away from his hands and slowly back up to meet gray eyes. He didn't know what to say. Draco still hadn't been back to see the Malfoy Manor. No one had let him. Lucius had refused Draco to go, even more so than anyone else. But, Draco could have gone, and they all knew it, but he hadn't pushed himself to do it. It was dangerous for him to go, for anyone to go. Harry had spent a lot of time listening to Draco make small talk about the manor, many nights, in the small sitting room that they preferred, that had been made pretty much theirs and the Ministry members stayed out when they were around. He knew it was going to be hard for Draco to go back. He knew Draco was scared about what he was going to see, inside, and though Harry had been offering him an open ear, and managing small, optimistic, caring reassurances about how it was okay if he needed more time before he could go back, he didn't know what to say, at that moment, because of the way Draco had said it.

Draco looked at him, too.

Harry leaned forward, his toes digging into the dark red area-carpet below the desk and chairs, "_Can_ you?"

Draco laughed. Harry knew him too well.

Harry's eyes followed his change of attention, back to the window, somewhat lovingly.

Draco's answer was a resounding, never-spoken, "No." He banged his head back against the chair.

Harry stood back up. He reached over and gave Draco's shoulder a slight nudge with his hand, "Come on. Let's get some lunch."

Draco pushed himself up, lazily, and as they walked out of the room, through the open door, he sighed, "I hate this."

Harry looked at him, silently, before his eyes fell down, and he continued to walk. He stopped, "You could fly."

"I don't want to fly by myself, anymore. Plus, it's dangerous."

Harry caught up to him, the few feet, and followed him down the first couple of steps, "You could dance."

"By myself? No thank-you."

"Listen to music?"

"I've _been_ listening to music. I'm half-way deaf, by now, Potter, from Axl Rose whining in my ears."

"Oh, you _are_ in a sad state if you just insulted Axl Rose—your personal _God_."

Draco laughed, as they reached the bottom step. He grinned at Harry, halfheartedly, "Kurt, too. His voice can be so depressing."

Harry laughed, "Well, have you been listening to the same song over and over again? Try some variety. It might help."

"I don't like you being in my head, Potter. Get out. Get out. _Get ouuuut_."

Harry followed Draco into the kitchen, which was lively, as always, with at least ten Ministry members.

"Oh, good morning, darling," Narcissa affectionately doted, as she passed Draco, following after Dickie, who ran between Harry and Draco, splitting them each to jump to one side of the doorway. She left a pat on his arm before she disappeared, laughing. As soon as she was out of the room, after Dickie, Draco looked at Harry, and Harry looked right back at him. As expected, Harry's left eyebrow was hooked up. Draco knew he had something similar going on with his own face. Truth was, his mother had been beaming, lately. Draco hadn't known if it was because his father—Lucius—was always around, and working as a spy, though he was always very quiet, resistant and begrudging, or the fact that she adored Dickie and looked after him all of the time—oh, and she enjoyed it, too.

Cornwell had never asked her to do it.

Yes, and then there was the issue of Cornwell—which Draco refused to wonder was the reason his mother was happy, and it would be ridiculous to assume so, because they had never gotten along, and there was no way they would have sudden started to like each other. It was strange, though, how this makeshift family had formed for him—and, not only for him, but for Harry, too. Draco did know that his mother and Cornwell got along, or at least pretended to not hate each other, when he was around, and Lucius was always around, too, and when his parents were together, they seemed to truly enjoy it, again, for the first time in... _so_ many years. And, Dickie was like this little beam of light that glued their mornings, afternoons and evenings together. Even when he was whiny and pouty, he somehow managed to bring Draco, Cornwell, Narcissa and Lucius together.

Lucius had taken to Dickie. He pretended not to, but Draco saw him adoring Dickie with genuine smiles when he thought no one was looking. But, Draco knew exactly what the smile was. It was the same smile he knew his father possessed, beneath the aristocratic man who had pledged his life to a man whose mortality, it seemed, could never be questioned. He had seen it while growing up, all of the time. It was void of expectation or allegiance.

Draco had stayed out of the meetings, as had Harry. They had agreed not to get into it unless asked, until they were all adjusted and settled in, and they had had time to cope, finally, with all of the stress of the summer. That, however, did not mean their minds weren't always on what was going on around them, in that very house—The Order's _headquarters_.

But, in the Order's headquarters, a family had formed.

Draco watched Harry, in the mornings, or when he woke up at five in the evening and made it to dinner, and the way everyone greeted him—but, none more warmly than Remus Lupin, Cornwell and Narcissa. He had them all there for him, and Dickie, too. Of course, Draco. So, it was kind of like a little family for Harry, too, and even if it wasn't by blood, he knew he was being looked after and cared for and asked things of. When he was asked to do the dishes, or Draco's mother would ask Harry for help with dinner—which Draco had found shocking, the first time, as he hadn't known his mother could even cook—at least not big meals—and Harry would immediately take on the task and spend the night in the kitchen, helping, whilst Draco would sit at the table, do nothing, not even be in the room or help, too.

"Harry, up so early?" Asked an Order member, with a grin, as she walked by.

Harry laughed, sheepishly, and itched at his cheek, "I—yeah, I usually sleep late... _yeah_. Yeah." Yeah? _Dope_!

Draco mentally laughed. Physically, he rolled his eyes and, as he passed Harry, hissed, "_Real_ smooth, Potter." He didn't look back over his shoulder for a reaction, because he felt a kick at the back of his leg. He laughed to himself, as he walked around the side of the table. He pulled out a chair, latching his eyes onto Harry, who was still standing, awkwardly, in the doorway, and still with his hand against his face. He had his teeth over his bottom lip, too, and he looked anxious about something. This something—more likely _who_—wasn't hard for Draco to place. Harry had a crush on an Order member. She was about twenty-four, that Draco knew, and a daughter of one of the original Order members. Her parents were still in the Order, of course, but she was always around, and she had been there the day Harry had been outed as... well, _Harry_.

She was just the type Draco regrettably figured Harry to have. Harry had never been one to pursue the blonde-headed, blue-eyed, typically-bubble-headed girl at school. He seemed to like pale skin and dark hair. The girls he had found intriguing, he had admitted to Draco, all seemed to have rather fair skin, which Draco had found curious. This girl—er, woman—was just up Harry's alley. Her dark-hair was shoulder length, she had bright, bright blue eyes, a few freckles, and an outstanding body, if he did say so himself. But, Draco had never cared to learn her name. He had been watching Harry for the last two weeks as he fawned over this girl, more and more every day, to the point it started to make Draco feel oddly aggravated when Harry would be sitting at a meal, while Draco was talking to him, but be completely ignoring Draco and thinking about her—_her_! PEG! Pretty evil girl!

PEG. That's what Draco had started calling her, to Harry, and Harry had had no idea what it meant. Still didn't.

Draco cleared his throat and tilted his head, "What's that, Potter?" He pointed at Harry's body, carelessly, as Harry reached the table, having pulled himself away from the door. He was blushing, too, and seemed to be feeling like a complete and total failure. This girl—_er, woman_—had an effect on Harry. He never really actually spoke to her. and, would he have, as Draco had taken the time to do so, he wouldn't have been too impressed. Personally, Draco thought she was a bit of a bubble-head, but... he wasn't... judging... or anything.

Harry glanced down at his body, and then stopped.

Draco looked up at him for about five, silent, long seconds, before snorting. Really, Potter? All he had to do was look at her and get a hard-on? Ridiculous! But, also, strangely hot. Draco took pleasure in the moment, and threw, at Harry, leaning over the table, whilst everyone was noisily working and talking around him, "I know what it is! It's a _PEG_-leg! Ahaha—okay, okay, that was brilliant, you can't deny it!" He praised himself. "Go take care of yourself, Potter. This is a _family_ area."

Harry reached across the table, bright red, even though no one had been paying attention to what was being said between them, and swatted at Draco, "MALFOY!"

Draco moaned with all-too-delighted, overjoyed laughter, leaning back in his chair to get away from Harry's hand, his arms over his chest, "Hahaha!"

Harry stared at Draco. He was laughing so hard. Really, really hard. With glittering eyes, too, and a redder face. Even more embarrassed, Harry tore a couple of flower petals off of a stem in a vase, a foot away, on the table, and threw them at Draco, "Stop!"

Draco brushed his hands over his face, as he laughed, "Okay—I'll stop," he assured, through laughter, as Harry slipped down into the chair across the table from him and paced himself, with his hands outstretched on the surface. Finally, Draco made himself stop laughing, though it was hard—hard! _Ahaha_! He cleared his throat, to stop from his spurt of new laughter. And, just as he calmed himself (or tried), Harry looked up at him, from the wooden table-top, with tightly pressed lips, pointy cheeks and embarrassed eyes.

Draco looked away from him, immediately, because he started to laugh, again. Though, he had never fully stopped.

Harry dropped his forehead down onto the table-top, and then wrapped his arms around his head, cursing himself.

"Draco!"

Harry pulled his head up and looked over his right shoulder, just in time to see a tiny little being hurry around the end of the table, to get to Draco. He, too, saw Narcissa walk back into the room, laughing at something someone was saying from the hallway. Harry had noticed how different she looked. She looked ten years younger, somehow. There was some sort of glowing energy that came off of her. She had always been beautiful, but she had also always been lacking luster and seemingly embracing some sort of enigma. But, gone was that Narcissa Malfoy. She was happy, and Harry was always running into her, around the house, which wasn't hard to do, as there were many people there, but mostly everyone stayed on the ground floor, and the more important Ministry members had set up offices upstairs, on the floor that Harry and Draco shared a bedroom on. Every time he ran into her, her appreciated her more and more, because she was always looking after him. Not in the way Misses Weasley had. Narcissa was hardly trying to mother him, but she had definitely realized she was the only woman, currently, as a central figure, in his life. She peaked in on him, during the day, sometimes, and asked him how he was doing, and, once, she had brought him vitamins, as she did Draco.

_Vitamins!_

Draco pushed his chair back, grinning, "Shrimp," he greeted, happily. He had played with Dickie for, at least, two hours that morning, when no one had been awake enough to deal with Dickie, who had woken up early. So, Draco had taken him and played with him in a sitting room. A few toys had been brought, for Dickie, from Order members' families. It wasn't safe to bring anything back from the Malfoy manor, as everything and everything could have been bugged or tracked, which was one reason Draco had put off going back, because he knew there were so many trinkets and belongings that he would want to bring back to Grimmauld place.

As Dickie stood beside Draco's chair, he held up something in the air.

Draco looked at it, with a smile, and took it, "_Wow_, did you pick this yourself?" Dickie nodded, proudly. "Thank-you!"

It was a white flower.

Dickie smiled at him, cutely, and then hurried around to Harry and held up a different hand, with a different flower in his tiny fingertips.

Harry took it, lightly, with a smile he didn't have to search for, "Thanks, Dickie."

Dickie shrugged his shoulders up and mumbled something that Harry was supposed to understand.

Draco laughed, "That means you're welcome, I think," he informed Harry, who glanced at him. "_Seriously_."

Harry laughed, too, and pressed the flower to his nose, "Smells good."

"Yes, like flowers on a rainy day. Heavenly, isn't it? _On the scent on a flower bed below one's window, I swear_..."

Harry responded by playfully kicking Draco under the table. Draco smirked at him, harmlessly, in response, "Turkey sandwich?"

"No cheese."

Harry pushed himself up from the table, "No cheese, no lettuce, no mayonnaise. Turkey on honey-wheat bread plus lots of mustard—you really don't need to tell me anymore, Malfoy." They usually took turns making sandwiches, and nearly every single time it was Harry's turn, Draco would tell him not to add cheese or some other little sandwich anecdote. He did it for amusement, Harry figured, because every time Harry went to correct him, Draco was sort of smiling at him, as if to tell him to not bother and to go make the sandwiches. He turned away, as Draco's mother took his seat, and he walked toward the refrigerator.

"Good morning, Harry."

Harry smiled, immediately, turning around to Cornwell, "G'morning."

"That was a suspicious good-morning," Draco drawled. He sighed, dramatically, to pass the time and amuse himself. "Potter, are you sleeping with my father?"

Harry grabbed an apple, next to the bag of bread he had been opening, from a woven basket. He turned around and threw it at Draco, who caught it, flawlessly, while he moaned with laughter again, "STOP! Making! Everything! So! Sexual!"

Draco bit into the apple, grinning, hard, his eyes chatting happily with Harry's from across the room.

Cornwell ignored the exchange of words, for the most part, after he gave Harry a pat on the head. It seemed as if Cornwell had just woken up, which was... strange, because, usually, he was the first up. However, he hadn't gotten much sleep over the prior couple of weeks. Every time Harry had been awake, he had seen Cornwell, and when he wasn't awake, Draco later informed him of something that had happened or been said by Cornwell. It seemed, sometimes, as if Cornwell never slept. And, there were certainly days where he appeared aged by fifteen years, with deadly tired eyes and dark circles below his eyes to accompany them. It was good to see him well-rested. He had just waltzed right into the kitchen, clean-shaven and seemingly full of energy. It was a nice change.

Cornwell walked over to the table and lifted Dickie up off of his small feet, sweeping him into a gigantic, warm hug.

Dickie giggled, as Cornwell smothered his tiny face with kisses, before letting Dickie settle on his right arm, as if it were a seat.

Draco watched Cornwell with intrigued eyes, examining him while he waited, in silence, for his sandwich. It was so good to see Cornwell happy... and... not sleep-deprived. It was good to see him walk into a room rather than slouch into it. The days had been rough, and the nights had been rougher. Someone had finally convinced Cornwell to go to sleep, and whomever that person might have been, Draco mentally praised.

"Good morning," Cornwell greeted him, too, with a squeeze on Draco's shoulder, with his free left hand.

Draco squeezed his hand over Cornwell's lightly, to return the affection, "'Morning."

A few minutes later, Harry dropped a sandwich, wrapped in a paper-towel, in front of Draco, on the table, before he took the seat next to Draco. The table had been filled, completely, and lunch had been ordered—not so much ordered as being whipped up at Molly Weasley's house. Except, Harry had already made his sandwiches, and he didn't want them to go to waste, so he figured they could snack on them before lunch arrived.

It was a very lively morning, one of which Harry wasn't used to being a part of. There had been another table added to the one that had already been in the kitchen, and there were way too many extra chairs squeezed in. Basically, there wasn't much personal space for anyone, during meal-times. But, Harry sat at the very end of one side of the table, next to Draco, so he had a bit more room. No one else really seemed to have assigned seats during meals except for Harry and Draco, who sat side by side—oh, and, usually, Remus sat at the end of the table, next to Harry, and across from Harry was usually Cornwell, across from Draco was usually Dickie who was propelled into the air in an invisible booster seat, and next to Dickie usually sat Narcissa, and, when Lucius was around, he would sit next to her.

Draco glanced at Harry, "Thanks."

Harry nodded at him, as if to say he was welcome, before he lifted his sandwich up.

A small tapping noise took Harry's attention away from eating.

It seemed to steal Draco's attention, too, because when Harry looked at him, Draco looked back.

But, Draco's eyes shifted, to the left, behind Harry and to one of the windows, "Owl-post."

Harry turned his face to the left, too, and saw that there was an owl sitting outside one of the many kitchen windows that lined one side of the wall and above some of the countertops. He could see the letters attached to the owl's foot, so he maneuvered himself out from the table. He walked over to the window and opened it up, as it was the spot that the owls usually stopped to deliver mail. How they knew just where to go, Harry wasn't sure. But, he was curious as to what kind of letters they were getting, publicly.

Harry untied the stack of three or so letters from the bird's foot, and then reached over to the right, without glancing at where his hand was going. He grabbed a tiny owl-treat from a dark blue glass dish he had set out a few days earlier while looking for things to do. He let it roll into his palm and offered it out to her. She took it, without nipping at his skin, as the last owl he answered for had, and then took off, promptly. Impressed with her stamina, he watched after her, for a second—wait, wait! That was a school owl! Hogwarts! He had heard rumors, around the house, and even on the Network, about Hogwarts opening for the new school year. Dumbledore had been around, but Harry had never asked him, as it had been the last thing on his mind.

Harry closed the window and then looked down at the letters, without wasting a second.

_Harry Potter, number twelve Grimmauld Place._

Harry pulled flipped the letter up so he could look at the one below it.

_Draco Malfoy, number twelve Grimmauld Place_.

Harry flipped that letter up, too, and glanced at the letter below it, which was addressed to the Parents of the Student—meaning Draco.

Harry stared down at the letters, and then turned and looked over at the table.

Draco was looking at him, curiously, "What?"

Harry held up the letters, in his left hand, "Hogwarts." He laughed, slightly amazed to hear himself say it. "_Hogwarts letters_. Two. Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter."

Cornwell turned his head, as did Narcissa and Remus, who had heard, and then some other folks from around the table did the same.

Draco swallowed his bite of sandwich, "What? But... what, _you're serious_!" It was hardly an exclamation. It was more of a laughing statement of doubt turned false. He turned and held out his left hand. Hogwarts letters? It was too much to believe, but too little to doubt. "Let me see!"

Harry handed Draco's letter right to him and handed Cornwell, across the table, the letter addressed for the Parent.

Cornwell took it.

Harry sat down and slowly began to open his letter. He glanced at Draco, to see that he was just staring at his.

Draco looked right at him, at the same time.

Harry slowly placed the envelope down on the table, and then stared at it, too.

Draco looked at his own.

Harry looked back at him, strangely.

Draco was frowning.

Harry frowned, too, "You open yours."

Draco scoffed, "_You_ open yours."

When Harry looked up from his letter, there were people looking between he and Draco and their letters, strangely.

"It's okay," Cornwell said, quietly, interrupting the rude staring. "You can open them at another time."

Harry placed his letter over Draco's, and then Draco pushed the letters away from their newly-appeared plates.

Draco pulled his hand back, slowly, and looked right at Harry, slightly hesitant to do so.

They were feeling the exact same way. It was strange. They couldn't open them, not there, as if everything were okay, as if it were any normal summer's meal when their letters showed up for them. It didn't feel right.

"I guess Albus decided it was best to keep the school open this year," Narcissa quietly added.

Cornwell had opened his letter and was reading over it. He only offered a small, "Mmm," in agreement with her.

Draco looked at Harry, once more, to see that he was still eyeing their Hogwarts letters. Never had Draco figured it could be so stressful for them be getting their letters to return to school, but so much had changed. That summer had been insane for their entire community. Their entire world! And, so much more than that—excessively life-changing for both himself and Harry. There was a war going on. People were dying, as they sat there. People were fighting, as they sat there, in, probably, one of the safest places in their world, because of all of the powerful, skilled people around and the hundreds—maybe even thousands—of charms and ritual spells that had been placed over the house. They had been kept from battle, by everyone around them, but just the idea of returning back to Hogwarts, to see empty spaces at the tables and return to life, as if normal, seemed absurd.

Cornwell folded up the letter and placed it by Harry's and Draco's letters. He glanced at them, but said nothing.

Harry immediately looked away from him, and Draco's eyes instantaneously dropped to his plate.

The rest of the table could have cared less. They were all still cheerily talking and waiting for the food to arrive.

"Hogwarts, in time of peace _or_ war, is safest for the people who don't share our security. It's not the same for you two. Every other kid who got this letter, today, probably tore it open, and their parents probably felt a huge washing sense of relief. It's going to get your peers out of harm's way; At least, I believe Dumbledore trusts in Hogwarts continuing to be a safe-haven."

Draco looked up, to his father, who had leaned in a bit, to them, across the table, his voice soft, "We know."

"I know," Cornwell returned, almost carefully, and he seemed a bit anxious. Then, he murmured another soft, "_I know_."

"It's just going to be..." Harry quietly added, but he didn't know how to express the anxiety and anguish he felt. There was one emotion he tried not to feel. He tried to avoid it, even when it was pulsing through his mind. He tried mind-games with himself and, sometimes, spoke really loudly, when he was alone, to prevent himself from being able to eat away at himself, inside. His _guilt_ was horrible. "_Hard_."

"There's a good word," Draco concluded, a couple of seconds later, once Harry had made his point. He was such a sad fellow. It wasn't his fault, necessarily. He just had a lot of sad things happen to him, and, whatever had been going on inside of him complimented his state, that morning. Harry had his moments, when things seemed okay, and they would laugh for a good few minutes, or spend a couple of hours doing something that didn't let either of them have the time to think about everything they wished wasn't happening, wished they could do or wished wouldn't have happened at all.

When Draco looked up from his goblet, a pair of brown eyes, over the table, were laughing.

"I didn't say anything," Cornwell immediately defended, as Draco went to reply.

Draco fell silent, and then looked at Harry, who was shaking his head, "What! It's a good word!"

"It's a_ normal_ word. You can make the word _hand_ into something sexual—"

"I could say a lot of things, involving hands, without _trying_ to make it sexual, Potter. Hands _are_ sexual. I don't even have to reach to find witty anecdotes or examples."

Harry laughed and rested his left cheek down on his left palm, amused and watching Draco, "Of course."

Draco grinned, as he lifted his goblet, "It's true—hand was a bad challenge. I mean, hand-job? _C'mon_!"

"_Draco_."

Draco looked up, and then awkwardly pushed his goblet to his mouth when he realized his mother was sitting across from him, at the table. And, even if she wasn't listening to their conversation, and was discussing something with the woman next to her, it was still chancy. Because there were so many people always at meals, people tended to clique off and talk with each other, only, because they sat with the people who they best knew or liked the most, even though the group was friendly as a whole. And, at the end of the table, and at the end of a meal, it was usually Draco, Harry, Remus and Cornwell talking, or Remus and Cornwell, and then Draco and Harry. But, it wasn't uncommon for them all to get into some lively conversation.

"This is just _great_, my son is talking about hand-jobs," Cornwell wryly threw at Draco, disturbed, while Remus laughed into his hand. He had been the one to throw Draco's own name at him, accusingly, to make him realize what he was saying and in the company of whom he was saying it in. It wasn't proper for him to talk about that, anyway, no matter who was there! But, gone was proper Draco Malfoy! He talked about anything and everything, it seemed, lately. He wasn't vulgar, of course, but he was adjusting to the strange notion of sitting next to someone, at dinner, when it was noisy as all hell, and talking about some random, normal, teenage-boy-speak, and Harry loved it, apparently, because he would laugh and laugh, and then contribute to the conversation with something equally as horrifying to have been overheard.

"Draco equates everything with sex. It's all he can think about," Harry assured, with a snort, into his hand. He was leaned over on his left elbow, against the table. "What else can you expect? I mean, really. Malfoy, you got laid so much at school you probably didn't have any time to think. The silence in your head must be _killing_ you."

Draco looked at him, dead-panned, and then turned his face away, before laughing and looking back with a smug, pleased, self-satisfied smirk, "True."

Harry saw Draco twitch, "What?"

Draco cleared his throat, giving Harry innocent eyes, "What? I didn't say anything—"

"He was suppressing the urge to laugh, because it would make him childish. _Head? Killing him_? Think about it, Harry," Cornwell prompted him, interrupting Draco's all-too-innocent, practiced, perfected look of appalled shock, from over his own goblet, his eyebrows hooded over. He did seem slightly disturbed with the open conversation, but Harry knew he was amused and probably didn't care, too, because he hadn't stopped it.

"Oh," Harry peeped up, and then he started to laugh, again, at Draco, "I should have known—"

"I'm not the only childish one! You're the one laughing, Potter," Draco interrupted him, grinning hard.

Harry nudged his knee to Draco's under the table, "_That's because I think it's funny_."

"Oh, you laugh at funny things? That's so strange. I've never heard of something like that, before."

Harry pushed himself up, straight, grinning, hard. His cheeks were hurting, "Yeah, I'm one of a kind."

"Hardly, you arrogant twit."

"Don't call me an arrogant twit, you elitist _git_."

Draco draped his left arm over Harry's shoulders, heavily, and leaned against him as his own comeback.

Harry hadn't stopped laughing. He rested back down against the table, again, half supporting Draco, too.

"You two have too much time on your hands," Cornwell stated the obvious, as he rested his goblet down. It wasn't uncommon for Draco and Harry to call each other names and insult each other, without malice behind it, to pass the time and amuse each other. It always ended with both of them bored, again, and waiting for something to happen. "Do you have any plans for the afternoon?"

"First, we're going to go get some ice cream. Then, we're going to go dance around in Diagon Alley. _Naked_."

"No plans, then?" Cornwell challenged Draco, with a good-humored laugh. "I have something you can do."

"I'd rather him have said he had _someone_ I could do to put a stop to my _aching, silent head_—perhaps a shy school boy who I could corrupt with my evil Slytherin tongue and then soothe with my courageous Gryffindor mouth," Draco informed Harry, against his ear, who dropped his forehead down onto the wooden table, with a _thump_, still not having stopped laughing, in different stages of it. He was done, now, no longer truly able to contain himself, wheezing with laughter, almost chortling and choking, because he didn't want to get too loud. But, Draco looked back at Cornwell, who had heard the entire comment to Harry, though Draco hadn't intended him to. For a second, Draco caught his father's eyes, and then heard his own silent laughter halt to a tremendous, abrupt stop. He was being slightly stared at, with real shock. Quickly, he lifted himself further away from Harry, though still slightly, innocently, leaned against him, just for the contact of friendly affection. "_Uh_."

Cornwell didn't respond.

"Uh," Draco impressively intellectualized, once more, "what was it you had... _er_, in mind?"

"Certainly not a shy school-boy."

Harry lifted his face from being horizontal against the cool wood, and his eyes flickered to Cornwell. Shit, he had heard that? _Oh, Draco_. Harry tried not to laugh, as he looked at Draco's horrified face. He pressed his lips together, but then something came over him. Laughter, again. It didn't come out normally. It came from his throat and sounded like static. He couldn't help it! It was too perfect; Malfoy being embarrassed and looking like a deer caught in headlights was brilliant. Realizing this, and seeing that his hard laughter brought both the attention of Cornwell and Draco, Harry sat up, really straight, and leaned up over the table, with his chest, his hands folded on his lap under the table. He was half-crossed over in front of Draco, too, somewhat intercepting the conversation so he could redirect it. He bravely announced, to anyone who would listen, to save Draco from further humiliation, "Everyone, I'm in love."

"Oh, God," Draco muttered instead of cheering with appreciation and jumping on the obvious topic change.

Harry elbowed him, without giving Draco a turn of his head, and continued, "It's true. It's a woman named Peg."

"Oh, _God_, no," Draco added, this time with dread and sympathy. "Not _PEG_." Anyone but PEG!

"_Peg_, Harry? Did you name a broom or something?" As in, he hadn't met anyone new in a long time, and "Peg" had never been mentioned. "I told you, didn't I? I told Dumbledore_—if you keep Harry in here, too long, he's going to lose his mind_, and now he's falling in love with broomsticks in the cupboard," Tonks spoke up, from the other side of the table. "Harry, tell me she, at least, has good pedigree, and she's not from the Synthetic Wood Collection at _Dollar Cauldron_?"

Harry rolled his eyes at her, though he couldn't help but laugh, "Excuse me, but I did _not _fall in love _with a broomstick_!" He sat back and threw his hands out, as if to say, "What the fuck!"

"Stranger things have happened, Harry!" Tonks battled back, mockingly argumentative.

"Stranger things have happened!" Harry exclaimed, with a loud laugh. "What could possibly—_nevermind_! Don't tell me! I don't want to know!"

"Yeah, I don't think any of us... do," Cornwell laughed, slowly, and then the rest of the table joined in, too.

Tonks scoffed at them all, playfully, "_Whatever_—Harry, tell us about Peg, your "non-broomstick" friend."

At which point, Harry went to begin explaining his love for PEG. However, a small set of chirpy, boy-ish laughs silenced him. He turned and looked at Draco, as did half of the table. He stared at Draco, for a second, strangely, because he looked like he was going to die from holding in so much laughter, his gray eyes brighter and more sharp than they had been in days. Curiously, and with a tiny smile, amused with Draco's amusement, he pressed, "_What_?"

Draco laughed the same sort of static-y laugh Harry had, minutes before, before he snorted, his fingertips grasping onto the center of his own shirt, snuggled up, "Hahaha, _synthetic wood_. _Ahahaha_."

"You'd seriously be the _worst _porn-star _ever_."

"STAR?" Draco exclaimed, not being able to stop laughing. He poked Harry on the chest. "I'll be an _ICON_!"

Harry exploded with laughter, too. God, Draco was killing him. He was this perfect mix of... _everything_. He was so beautiful but so... _cute_. He was supposed to be sharp, intense and secretly withholding his amusements! He wasn't supposed to be so open. Draco had changed so much. Or, perhaps he hadn't. He had just opened up and let his gates down where Harry was concerned. Harry realized he had, too. He liked the Draco he got to know better every day better than the one he had known in the beginning of the summer, "You just lost your mind over hearing the wood—_word!_—synthetic wood—shut up!" He covered his mouth with his fisted hand, laughing into it, as Draco laughed at him, pointing at him, in front of everyone, though he didn't care if anyone else thought anything was as funny as he did, because it didn't matter what anyone else thought when they were around each other. Because Draco kept laughing, so hard, at his slip-up of a word, Harry irrationally reached out, in the space between them, and hit Draco's arm.

Draco laughed harder, "Oh, God, ah, ah," he kept laughing, trying to calm down. "Synthetic wood! Broomstick! PEG! It's all too perfect! Oh, God, thank-you. Thank-you, _God_, for this meal." He folded his hands together, in front of his chest, looking up at the ceiling, before he looked down, at Harry, who had his hand over his eyes, leaned in over the table on his opened palm. He was embarrassed. Oh. Draco looked around at the faces looking back at them. Everyone was snickering and looking at each other with pressed lips and widened, amused eyes. Except his mother who looked slightly horrified and awkward. He immediately cleared his throat and gave Harry a tiny, accusatory shove, which made his elbow slip off of the table and his hand drop from his eyes. "I was only laughing, Harry—Harry Potter—because—I mean, the hilarity of shopping at _Dollar Cauldron_—it's just hysterical, see. I thought she was kidding. There's such a thing as the Synthetic Wood Collection? Appalling—just—_ahahaha_—ahem—what are you laughing at, Potter? _Harry_ Potter? Oh, God! Your name! _Ahahaha_."

"Run."

Draco looked at Harry.

"_Run_," Harry repeated.

Draco kept laughing, until Harry went to tackle/strangle him. He half-fell backward, laughing, hard, and went down, on the floor, on his back and his elbows, with Harry falling over Draco's newly emptied chair to get to him, his hand out, grasping at Draco's shirt, so he couldn't escape. But, Draco, hysterically laughing, shuffled back on his palms and feet, as Harry slid off of the chair and landed on the floor.

Draco moved as fast as he could to get up. He stumbled as he did so, and Harry was just as fast, but Draco was out of his grasp, as they ran around the table and Draco made a jet, like a bullet, for the kitchen door, which was unfortunate for Harry, because he got a grasp on the back of Draco's shirt, but when the blonde threw himself against the swinging door, Harry lost it, and they both stumbled out of the kitchen as free half-men-half-boys.

They tore through the front of the house, until they reached the stairs, which Draco began to take two at a time. He knew Harry had had an unfortunate collision with a table when they were skidding around the corner to get to the stairs, so he had himself a couple of extra seconds. He had heard Harry gasp with pain, but he'd also heard the hurried footsteps after him. He turned around, on the middle stair, his heart pounding, as Harry appeared at the bottom of the stairs, with one hand on the banister and one on the wall, his shoulders tensed, his dark eyes enflamed and entertained. But, Draco had his hands out in front of him, and he was standing still, and Harry wasn't going to attack him, because it would have been too easy to jump the few stairs and grab him, "Ten second time-out—are you okay?"

Harry gave a prompt, taunting nod.

"No internal bleeding? After this, are you up for—_no_? Three, two, one!" He turned and spurted up the stairs.

Draco wasn't even five feet away from the top of the stairs when a grasp took the back of his shirt. But, he pulled away from it, screaming girlishly, just for fun, and he darted down the hallway, bumping into a random dresser on the way. He turned into one of the Order's rooms and hurried behind a desk, and when he turned around, Harry was sitting on the chair right in front of the desk, pretending to look impatient, as if he had been waiting for Draco to turn around for awhile. Laughing, and with a huge smirk of challenge, to which Harry leapt up from the chair and threw back at him in form of a somewhat happy and _definitely_ sexy close-mouthed smile, Draco pressed his hands down on the desk.

Harry imitated him and leaned in, until their noses were only a few inches apart.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

Harry meanly did the same.

Draco's smile returned, instantly, and made a trick-move to the left, to fool Harry, and moved right. But, somehow, Harry moved right, with him, instead of going left, and when Draco slid out from behind the desk, to the right, Harry was opposite him, still only the few inches away, standing straight to emulate his own stance. And, he was smiling, so smugly, with this crazy, "Oh, did you really think that was going to work!" look, his left eyebrow hooked up, which matched the right side of his mouth—it should have been lop-sided, but damn Draco Malfoy if he found it damn perfect and appealing. Yes. Indeed, he was damned. Damn Potter for being pretty, too, as Judas Cliffdale!

_Shit_! Draco had thought it was going to work! Though Harry didn't attack him, or didn't have the time to, while they sized each other up for the good one second between them, Draco knew he had to move. He broke right, and, somehow, managed to get out from behind the desk. His feet pounded into the floor as he ran for the door. He slipped on the wood, with his left foot, but caught himself, in the doorway, with his hands, before he pushed himself out, made ground, somehow, with his feet, and began to run for the stairs, again. He made it all of the way down the stairs, somehow, without falling to his death of a broken neck, and then tried to hide himself behind a tall clock, as he heard Harry hit the bottom floor, again.

Harry didn't walk past him, but Draco heard footsteps leading him in the opposite direction.

Unsure of what his plan of action was, Draco stood there for a good thirty seconds. He took in a small deep breath, finally, figuring Harry was done looking for him and couldn't find him. He was going to start back up the steps. As he breathed in, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, about three seconds later, Harry had just turned a corner, to the left, and stopped, abruptly.

Draco forced a huge smile, innocently, before he ran for his life.

Harry was much closer, this time, on the chase up the stairs, where they kept bumping into the wall after Harry would catch the back of Draco's shirt or his pant-leg, and it would trip Draco up, but only for fractions of seconds, because he would manage to get a hold of himself and his speed and keep pulling away from Harry. That was, of course, until he was at the top of the stairs, still free. He was about two feet into his run, when a hand caught the back of his shirt, hard. It was a solid grasp. He was caught, and the strength of the pull, and Draco's urge to run away, again, halfway into it, catapulted him back a couple of inches, and he turned toward his left, into the hand, so he was facing Harry, and looked back at Harry.

Harry let go, smiling, and, as he let go, he closed in on Draco and backed him up against the wall.

Draco was smiling the whole time, his top teeth pulling over his dry bottom lip.

They were moving together, smoothly, to get to the wall, and as Harry backed them up, his palms, ever so lightly, wound up just _barely_ touching and resting over Draco's T-shirt covered sides, at the waistband of his dark gray, fitted, low-rising trousers. It wasn't a hold. It was teasing and not remotely awkward. He was smiling, the whole time, and they were both sort of laughing at each other, because they were playing. _Playing_. They were being _playful_, chasing each other around the house, and... _yes_.

Right before Harry's hips pinned Draco's against the wall, Draco's hands managed to place, confidently, rightfully, in the same exact place on Harry's body that Harry's hands were on Draco's body. But, Draco's thumbs lifted up under the bottom hem of Harry's shirt and they wrapped around the loose waistband of Harry's pajama pants, which were already laying low on his hips, and tugged. He smirked with a, "what now?" approach, but it faded after he saw Harry noticed it. And, when they were finally up against the wall, perfectly still, they were nose to nose and both still smiling, _knowingly_, at the affection they were sharing, Harry biting over his bottom lip while he laughed, and Draco grinning, shamelessly, with the tiniest bit of his tongue clenched between his top and bottom teeth, which disappeared, and the space allowed his quiet laughter to voice back at Harry, audibly, rather than having it just be noticed between their smiles and their eyes—yes, the eyes. The_ eyes_. Talking, catching, laughing, wondering—_enjoying, praising_.

Harry laughed, too, but from his nose, mostly, because his lips were suddenly pressed together.

He looked down, between them, pressing his forehead against Draco's.

But, Draco didn't look down, just kept his eyes on Harry, as he examined whatever he was examining.

Harry's eyes pulled up, and then his left hand did. The tip of his nose dropped in, against Draco's, to the right of it, out of no where, and he nudged it, ever so slightly, while his index fingertip rested down against Draco's right cheek. It slipped down to fill the space between their mouths, as it was a space that shouldn't have been there, but couldn't be solved with any other space-filler—certainly not by their mouths touching. No. Oh, God, _no_. But, his eyes found Draco's, again, as his fingertip plummeted down over the center of the soft, full, warm, dry top lip and fell right onto the top of his bottom lip.

Draco felt the tiny pressure of a push, and he let his already slightly opened lips be pushed further apart.

Harry's top teeth caught onto his own dry, tingling, anxious bottom lip.

The tip of his finger massaged over the very tip of Draco's tongue, and when it went to retreat, Draco nipped it, between his teeth, to catch it. It was soft. He held it there, for a couple of seconds, until Harry's eyes met his, deeply, and hotly, before he released the small, light hold. But, the gentle rub of the pad of Harry's fingertip didn't leave. It rubbed at the tip of his tongue, again, this time while staring at Draco, straight on, and then it slipped out, leaving a small, wet trail against Draco's dry bottom lip. He massaged the center of it, for a few seconds, before it drove Draco completely insane and his chest flipped over with flushed warmth. The rhythm, the feel, the moistness was perfect—it just made him want Harry's mouth all that much more—but, then, sadly, the fingertip left his lip, traced down the center of his chin, and disappeared.

Harry's eyes were so entranced to Draco's lips that they had become their own perfection, right for staring at and touching, and licking—licking, God, how he just wanted to... just... they were just... so... soft... and... full, pretty, fleshy. _Warm_. Promising. He breathed out, shakily, barely at all, and pressed his mouth beside Draco's. In the process, he collected and picked up a tiny bit of the wet trail his fingertip had left behind, which he mentally moaned at, because it tasted so good, faint though it was. His eyes pulled themselves from the tempting, magnetic mouth he had been trying to deny pleasure in for weeks. He rested, fully, against Draco, and dropped his left hand back down to where it had been, before. This time, his fingertips rubbed over the soft material of the T-shirt, and it felt silky. He murmured, his heart feeling heavy and his body feeling weak for what he wanted, "_I_ want to corrupt your evil Slytherin tongue."

Draco's thumbs settled on Harry's hip-bones, under his light, cotton pants, and he held Harry's hips against his, with closed eyes, as their cheekbones collided together. Harry sounded so helpless, and so sweet, and _so _confused, "Mmm, and soothe my courageous Gryffindor mouth?"

Harry managed the tiniest of smiles, against Draco's cheek, at the question, "You don't even know how much I want you."

It was ripping through his body, the desire have Draco—to just kiss him, right then, to touch him, to pull him away, into their room, close and lock the door, close all of the windows, shut all of the blinds, block out the world, and give Draco anything and everything he wanted, in every single way humanly possible. There was nothing else to be desired than his mouth over Draco's. Nothing had ever needed, so badly, to be had. Nothing had ever needed, so badly, to happen. No person had ever needed to try with Harry Potter, because Harry Potter had never felt, about anyone, the way he felt, at that moment, with and about Draco Malfoy. No _one_ person had ever pulled out the intensity, from Harry Potter, that made his entire body, brain, mind, heart and soul want, need, desire and ache for something more than Draco Malfoy did.

"I know how much you want me."

Harry smiled, again, at the tiny, tiny squeeze of Draco's hands on his hips, for him to realize the other boy could feel. But, Harry closed his eyes and dropped his cheek from Draco's. He rested his forehead down against the warm shoulder, then lifted his face up and stared, straight, at the wall. He moved right to Draco's ear, lifting his left hand up, once more. He dropped it over Draco's right shoulder, and then it slid down behind his back, between Draco and the wall, which neither of them seemed to mind. Harry's right hand left its spot, too, and slipped around to Draco's back, too, bravely finding its way up under Draco's loose shirt and onto the warm back—_ah-ah_, and, it felt good. So soft.

Harry was hugging him.

Draco melted into it, too, and cupped the back of Harry's head with his right palm, somewhat protectively.

"I want you so much more than that." So much more than just the physical reaction of their hips and hormones. And, there was definitely a strong physical reaction, which felt incredible, and amazing, and perfect, and... right. It was comfortable, and harmless, and both of them kept their hips together, even as their arms were wrapped around each other in some sort of understanding, confused, interested, intrigued, sweet, unthreatening embrace. It was something Harry had never felt, before. He had had his fair share of flings with girls, in the last year, whether they be one night at a Quidditch celebration, one date or one week, or an angst of months. But, it was different with Draco, and not just because it was completely different anatomy, but because it _felt_ good. Stimulating. Irrepressible. Unfalteringly arousing. Besides, Draco was his height, and that was kind of hot, too, somehow. He liked the way their bodies rested together.

"Draco? Harry? Come on down, lunch is here," called a voice, distantly, from downstairs.

Neither moved, until Draco's left palm gave a tiny, circular rub on the curve of Harry's lower back.

Harry wanted to burst. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually—every _ally_ that had ever existed!

Harry sniffled, a tiny bit, and lifted his nose from where it had been resting against Draco's cheek.

A mesh of incredible warmth settled below his ear, which elicited a tremble of a swallow in Harry's throat and a burst of energy within his chest.

Draco lifted his cheek, too, and pulled his face away, until the back of his head rested against the wall.

Harry gazed over his face, as they looked at each other, face to face, again. Draco looked so peaceful and relaxed. He had nothing to say and everything to feel, and Harry understood exactly that. But, one of them needed to pull away. He knew it was going to need to be him, because, after all, he _was_ the one who had Draco trapped. He knew it wasn't going to be awkward, because they hadn't had an awkward moment. It was sweet, and innocent, and they were trying to figure out what was going on. They cared about each other, in a lot of ways, but there were situations that were more important than any tiny—or monumental—attraction they might have had for each other. It wasn't the right time, for either of them. But, Harry loved Draco—not necessarily romantically but not necessarily unromantically, either—and that was what they were sharing. They both understood that for what it was, no matter whatever else was going on.

Harry let out the tiniest of sharp breaths, as he dropped his left arm, and then his right.

But, still, he didn't pull himself away. He smiled, barely at all, and leaned in to Draco's ear. Something just came over him, and it felt right to say—to do, "You taste good."

_Parseltongue_.

Draco seethed his pleasure. Had Harry not have been still pressed up against him, he might have had a spasm. His body went numb with fiery grief of the separation he knew was going to take place, and even more so because he had just been hissed something—something that sent his body over the verge of arousal he had never known existed. His entire nervous system shut down and crashed, like a ton of butterflies in the form of adrenaline heartache, and it filled up his entire stomach—not just part of it, or his chest, or the bottom—but the whole damn thing, and it stuck. Stuck, hard, so hard that some strange numbness rendered half of his existence unimportant and made his ears super sensitive enough to have not only heard it but heard it so soundly that it made everything shut off, just to shiver from the tip of his head to his toes. His mind was off, one hundred percent, because his body was the only thing reacting—like it never had, before, and that was okay with him, because _it was Potter_.

Harry left a kiss, a couple of seconds later, against Draco's ear, then his cheek, and then he pulled away.

Draco watched after Harry. He didn't turn back around. He just walked toward the stairs and disappeared. There was a reason he hadn't turned around. But, because he was gone, Draco could finally breathe. But, he didn't manage to breathe out how he felt he should have. Instead, he somewhat slid against the wall, toward the right, before he peeled himself off of it and used it to support himself, down the hallway, until he got to their room. He walked in, closed the door, and then gasped out a tiny cry. Oh, God. It fucking hurt—every part of Potter hurt him, because he wanted him _so_ much. With a exhale of hot, anxious breath, Draco collapsed down onto the couch, on his stomach, clutching over the center of his chest, to reach his heart, with his right fingertips snuggled up over his shirt and entwined in the fabric, as if he could comfort it, nurture it, soothe it and calm it down, because it hurt a lot more than anything else, currently, was hurting him.

Again, it was probably the first time his heart had ever come in, first, between himself and sexual bliss. He could want Potter, and Potter could want him, but it didn't matter what they wanted. There was a line. A boundary.

When Draco returned to the kitchen, he had missed, at least, twenty minutes. It was still crowded and still noisy—just how he liked it for lunch, on rainy days or sunny days. It was a rainy day, but that didn't even matter, because he had the sudden joy of a sunny day. He didn't know what that meant, but it was there. He looked over at the two combined tables and all of the people still eating. He cleared his throat and walked over toward the table, casually. He walked around the end of it, where Lupin was, and then slid into his seat, next to Harry, who he glanced at.

Harry smiled, hugely, before he bit into a piece of celery and looked away.

Draco smiled, too, hardly embarrassed, and picked up a piece of celery from a dish in front of them, "Good?"

"Excellent, you?"

Draco bit into the crisp celery, as he looked at Harry, straight on, shamelessly, "Fucking fantastic."

Harry started laughing, as he looked down at his empty plate. He hadn't been in the kitchen very long, either, but he had had enough time to pile food on his plate. He just hadn't, mostly because he wasn't too hungry, "I was talking about the celery."

"So was I."

Harry chewed on his bottom lip, staring at Draco, straight on, and Draco was staring back.

They both knew Draco was _beaming_. It wasn't even in embarrassing way. It was perfect, because Draco was beaming _smugness_. He was pleased. One of them was trying to ignore it and the other was thriving on it.

Draco took another bite of his celery and then held it up, pointedly, at Harry, "Best fucking celery ever, right here."

Harry laughed into the back of his hand and slouched down, a bit, a mess of laughter, sheepish and joyful

Draco watched it. It was perfect. Innocent and sweet, but knowing and reminiscent at the same time.

"Draco, you're still in one piece," commented Cornwell, as he walked into the kitchen, having already eaten.

Draco looked up from piling pieces of watermelon and cantaloupe onto his plate, "Potter couldn't hurt me if he_ tried_."

Harry smiled to himself, watching Draco spoon the chunks of fruit onto his plate like it was a bowl, "I beg to differ."

Draco didn't look at him, "You don't have to beg to differ, Potter, but you can beg for anything else."

Harry pressed his lips together and smiled, innocently, as people strangely looked between he and Draco.

"Every time I see the two of you, you're always discussing something I can _never_ decipher," Lupin laughed.

"Ah, professor Lupin," Draco responded, with the respect he had grown to embrace his former teacher with, and finally looked up from his plate. "Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are one for the _mystery_ history books. Trying to decipher us is like trying to figure out why penguins can't fly."

"Malfoy, penguins can't fly because their wings can't support their body-weight."

Draco looked at Harry. Silently, at first, before he smiled. Silently, again, and then went back to his fruit.

Harry was amazed that Draco hadn't thrown anything back at him. He had just smiled. _Perfectly_.

"Draco, you despise cantaloupe," awkwardly remarked his mother, from across the table.

Draco glanced down at the plate, chewing. He swallowed, and then looked back at her, "I despise nothing today. It's not humanly possible for Draco Malfoy to despise anything, on this rainy August day—and, if you want to know why, well... I'll tell you why."

Cornwell had slipped down at the table, again, and was sipping on something, "Do tell us, Draco Malfoy."

Harry chewed on a piece of celery, just as interested as everyone else in what Draco was going to bullshit.

Draco reached over and grabbed the bitten celery stick out of Harry's hand, "_This_ is why."

Harry's right palm slapped down onto the table, between their plates. He mused at Draco, content with the knowledge that Draco could be so incredibly, weirdly possessive, sometimes, in the strangest, most endearing ways.

"How is a stolen piece of Harry Potter's celery proof of you not being able to despise anything?"

"Exactly, professor Lupin; This is Harry Potter's piece of celery."

Harry overturned his hand, "Can I have Harry Potter's piece of celery back?"

Draco bit into the celery, "No. It's now mine. See, that is why I can't despise anything, because if I want something, I have to make it mine. Naturally, I want every_thing_ and want to claim everything as mine, and I couldn't possibly despise myself. Cantaloupe, therefore, can't be despised, because I just made this piece of cantaloupe mine."

It was silent, for a very long moment, before Cornwell laughed, loudly, with a sigh, "I don't know what's more confusing, Remus, the fact that I understood, perfectly, what Draco meant, or the fact that I found it strangely brilliant even though it truly didn't make any sense," he said, as he pushed himself up, giving Draco a shake of his head, while professor Lupin laughed, as did the rest of the table. Cornwell pointed at Draco, as he went to turn away, shaking his head, holding his empty, clear glass in his hand. "The first part—the cantaloupe part—made not one lick of sense, Draco. If you don't _like _the way cantaloupe tastes, why bother making it yours? It's disgusting."

"I think it was the watermelon flavoring that makes it likable," Draco reproached, knowing of his father's dislike for cantaloupe, too. When Draco was little, there entire family had been at a picnic in the summer, including Cornwell, and they had been sitting at the picnic table when his mother made him try cantaloupe—which, up until that point, Cornwell had never tried, either. They had both had less than pleasant reactions to it. Draco had spit it out, because he was a child and was excused, but Cornwell had had to endure it. Looking away from Cornwell, who nodded at him, his eyes flickered to his left side. He sniffled. "Hear that, Potter?"

Harry snorted into his hand, "I take back what I said—you'd be a decent porn-star—sorry, "_ICON!_""

"This is my cue to leave," Narcissa sighed and left with a woman she was talking to, while Cornwell coughed a laugh.

Draco looked at Harry, smiling broadly, "You offended my mother's sensibilities, Potter!"

"I'd offend yours if I was sure you would like it." He grasped his stick of celery back and smirked, hard.

Draco's nose scrunched at him, and he refused to look up from his plate, "What did I tell you about complimenting me?"

Harry smiled, before he glanced up at Cornwell, who was looking at him as if he had heard wrong, though he was still slightly smiling with a tiny twinge of the left side of his mouth. He turned his face to Draco, straight on, "To do it as much as possible? Or as little as possible? I don't know, Malfoy. I recall you saying something about boiling with warmth; Everything after that was lost."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Way to feed the round-table, Potter, once again."

"What was that?" Lupin asked, out of no where.

Harry snorted and looked up from his plate. He knew exactly what Draco was talking about. As usual, they were sharing casual conversations about nothing, and all of the homoerotic anecdotes of the day, so far, seemed to be candy to the eyes of the Ministry members, "Oh, come on," Harry told Remus, with a lifting left eyebrow, for him to not play oblivious. "_Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter_ make _everything_ homoerotic. It'll be that way until the end of time, mostly due to the fact that we're not normal blokes—for God's sake, he just stole my celery stick, bit it and claimed it as his own."

Draco choked. He couldn't hear his thoughts, anymore, because he was laughing so hard mentally.

Harry laughed at him, innocently, and gave him accusing eyes, "You did! Don't deny it."

Draco looked at him, "I have no idea what you're _talking_ about, Potter! I just wanted a bite of celery!"

Harry's hands lifted out, over the table, and he motioned to the plate of celery, "_Shockingly,_ a whole plate."

"Yours was closer. What can I say? I'm lazy. I didn't want to reach," Draco flawlessly concocted, grinning.

Harry bit into his celery stick, pointedly, and then held it up, beside his face, "Mine!"

Draco stole it, with ease, as Harry hadn't been expecting the theft, obviously. When he had it in his hand, he bit into it and declared, more powerfully, "_Mine_!"

Harry cracked up and gave him a tiny, happy shove. They were just playing, "If you're possessive over a celery stick..."

"It's not _just_ a celery stick," Draco snootily returned, with a dramatic, indignant snarl of his nose into he air, as he swallowed his late bite. With glee, he added a superficially superior, "_Ha_!"

Harry turned his palm around and pressed the outside of his hand over his forehead, as if to swoon.

"I feel half like crying and half like laughing—_what just happened_?" Cornwell asked, seeming very relaxed and amused. The way he often humored Harry and Draco was fun for both of them. Even with everything going on in their lives, and the fight at hand, and the war, and trying to figure out ways to bring Voldemort down, once and for all, they still managed to keep light and make things funny, just for the comic relief, even if it only appeared at meal times which was when they all saw each other most. It was almost an unspoken pact that dinner wasn't to be bogged down by war-time strategies. In the kitchen, as a group or as individuals, they connected on a person-to-person level. It kept them grounded most, it seemed, because whenever someone needed a true break, it was to the kitchen he went.

Harry put his hand out, with his palm turned upward. He pulled his bent fingers into the center of his palm, loosely, expectantly, and Draco placed the celery stick in it, "Draco has fallen in love with a celery stick."

"A whole lot more healthy than a broomstick named PEG, thank-you _very _much."

Harry dipped his right index fingertip into the juice of the fruit salad on Draco's plate. He lifted it up and drew a heart on Draco's cheek.

Draco ignored him, as he swallowed a piece of watermelon, "Apology _not_ accepted."

"How can you _deny_ a heart, drawn on your face, with _watermelon-flavored-juice_, by Harry _fucking_ Potter?"

Draco pretended to ponder this, before looking back at Harry. Had there not been anyone else in the room, Potter's mouth would have been his. He would have made sure. As he sat there, with his face turned to Harry's, he forgot what he wanted to say. It was easy for them to put on shows and talk about nothing, together, when they were around other people. They did it all of the time. And, they always did tease each other about their questionable sexuality, even around Cornwell, because it was innocent. There was nothing awkward, at that moment, about turning innocent foods into tools to amuse themselves. Around other people, they weren't the same. The part of them that was them usually wasn't out on display when so many other people were around. Plus, they were both easy-going, so talking about whatever, stupidly, they could, didn't matter.

But, there, in the kitchen, at that very moment, Draco wished they would have been alone.

Harry was turned toward him, as he had been for a couple of minutes.

Draco looked away from him, slowly, and back down to his plate. He lifted his left hand and his fingertips brushed over his cheek and over the still slightly damp heart. It was so sweet it almost hurt. Potter wasn't supposed to do stupid little things that would make him feel so... so... so... _real_. He looked back at Harry, again, with hesitantly friendly eyes. When he saw Harry's tiny smile, and his light-filled, incredibly sparkling brown eyes, Draco realized that Harry had intended for Draco to be having that very reaction. He had turned something so teasing and light into something sweet and real. A moment. He didn't have to reach up and make a heart on Draco's cheek. He could have just continued the pointless discussion in conversation—in banter, the way it had _always _been.

Harry was so pretty—or, Judas. The summer light was natural, coming in through the window and hitting the left side of his face. The day was gloomy, but it made Harry's skin, still, glow with something so summery, warm and memorable. Something summery, warm, and fuzzy seemed to paw at Draco's chest. He tore his eyes away from Harry, as his fingertips dropped back down to the table, "You're right. Think of all of the twelve year olds who would cry at the chance to have you draw a heart on their cheeks."

"You think my fan-base ends at twelve year olds?"

Draco smiled, slowly, and then couldn't help but smirk at Harry, truly, with a, "Did you _really _just ask me that?" look.

Harry rolled his eyes and decided to change the subject, "What are you going to do for the rest of the day while I,_ self-importantly,_ sleep?"

"I don't know. _Cry_, I suppose, until you wake up." He paused. "I'm seventeen and still in your fan-base. While you're unconscious, know that I will be pacing the floor, not knowing what to do with myself, waiting impatiently for you to come to. I might debate about slitting my wrists, but I don't have a high threshold for self-inflicted pain. In fact, if you had to put money on it—or your life—no offense—I'd go for the crying route. I'd much rather cry about you being asleep than slit my wrists, as that would make me pathetic beyond my realm of acceptable flaws involving pride and honor in front of you, Potter."

Harry smiled at him, content in the moment between them. It was a lot quieter, now, in the kitchen, for a reason or a few. He pretended to be informed and uttered a knowing, agreeable, "_Oh_."

"Yes, it's all very age-appropriate, though. I, myself, wouldn't cry for you to draw a heart on my cheek."

Harry continued to watch him eat his watermelon, "You're out of that phase in your fanship with me, hmm?"

"I skipped the twelve-year old Harry-Potter-love-phase, as you may recall. I was often busy with plotting your untimely—who am kidding? Your _timely_ death—_Potter_."

Harry pulled back from pressing a small, innocent kiss over Draco's cheek, sleepy with adoration, "_What_?"

Draco blinked, but he answered, "Nothing," before he could think about analyzing it. He answered with nothing, because it wasn't the first time—hardly—that Harry had given him a friendly kiss in front of other people. There had never been any sort of strange reaction to it—but, Draco had been thinking, so much, about the heart-strawberry-juice-drawing moment, so when Harry even got so much as a bit closer to him, when he was already battling with himself, inside, he had just mentally had a tiny, tiny—perhaps hopefully quiet—breakdown, and he had acknowledged the kiss with more personal intention, as he usually didn't.

Harry pushed himself up, "I'll see you later."

Draco watched after him, and, then, glanced down to Harry's empty plate. He hadn't eaten.

When Harry was gone, and Draco was alone, he finally molded his palm over his cheek. Was it horribly ridiculous to think he could feel the heart, still, outlined on his face, though the juice was no longer there? He didn't know. He didn't know what was going on. Damnit, Potter's affection was always getting Draco in trouble! Whatever it was, however, was hardly a bad thing. Harry always showed affection in front of other Order members at meals—not purposely. It just kind of happened. Everyone knew they were close and mockingly flamboyant, at times. But, his last kiss... was... special. Even as it was happening, Draco had known Harry was just sort of watching him, silently, seemingly half-tired, as he had been since Draco had walked into the kitchen. Draco, though, didn't know what to make of himself or his conflicting emotions, as he sat there, pushing around the watermelon on his plate with his fork.

After a couple of more minutes, Draco took his plate to the sink, left the kitchen and walked up the stairs.

When Draco opened the bedroom door, the bed was empty. He had figured Harry had left to go back to sleep or rest, but, no, the bed was still just as messy and unkempt as it had been, earlier. Though it was drizzling outside the window opposite the door, it was still bright in the room. He peeked around the door, as he walked in, and saw that Harry was sitting at the desk, with his feet pulled up on his chair, with his left arm wrapped around them while he wrote in his journal with his right hand. He seemed amused at what he was writing—no, maybe not amused with that.

Harry didn't glance upward, because he had heard the door open, "I'm telling my journal all about how you disregard my advances," he lamely joked, not trying to make it funny. He was just playing, of course, and bringing the strangeness of their affection, that day, to the forefront of conversation. It was a notable event. Having pushed it aside wasn't in either of their agendas. They usually faced things head-on instead of holding back and keeping it in. Life was too short for that, and they had agreed upon that, though never having spoken about it. It was just an obvious, unspoken fact.

Harry closed his journal and placed his quill down over it.

Draco sat down on his right shin on his chair, leaning up on his elbows over the desk, "Truthfully, Potter, if I wasn't me, and wasn't used to playing with you and walking around on my tip-toes while we verbally spar at each other, day-in and day-out, the hidden flirtation you just pulled, with said heart on my cheek, would have been mildly of my interest." Harry was grinning, just barely, nodding along and humoring Draco's conversational boredom. So, Draco rested his chin on his right palm and pursed his lips, once, before they relaxed. He smiled, too. "However, being that we are both boys, one of us gay—uh—and the other in his own, apparent, orientation, the obvious physical reactions to each other are to be _expected_."

Harry laughed, easily, relaxed back and now holding his knees with both arms, "I enjoy you, Malfoy."

"Noted," Draco flawlessly responded, without any sort of suggestion. His eyes flickered down to Harry's journal. It was amazing how they played with each other's emotions and presence, but never actually got upset or tried to analyze what it was that ran between them. Those days were long past them, because, currently, they were what they were, and they were all they would ever be, at that moment. "What were you really writing about?"

"A friend of mine—totally nearly got off on the sound of a snake hissing."

Draco dropped his palm to the desk, protesting silently, though he felt a slight flush drain from his face in a slightly comical way.

Harry tried not to laugh at how endearing Draco's quickly defensive expression had become, "You don't know him," Harry pressed, without trying to make it into anything. Draco hadn't gotten angry or freaked out, and Harry swore he saw something that resembled a hardly humiliated smirk hit on Draco's mouth before it molded itself into an impressively convincing frown of disgust. "I know—the thought of hissing being a turn on after all that being a snake implies? Slytherin? Voldemort? Evil? Sharpness? _Poison_?" He lifted up his quill and tickled himself with it on his cheek, having the urge to feel how soft it was. He didn't take his eyes off of Draco's, though the eye contact was nothing but friendly. "Plus, all of the phallic symbolism."

"This friend of yours might have welcomed that."

Harry pointed the tip of the quill at Draco, quickly, as if he were onto something, "Come to think of it..."

"Do you?"

Harry squinted, "Do I what?" He should have thought about it some more before throwing in his oblivion.

"Want to come when you think of it?" Draco asked, without skipping one, tiny, pleasing beat, and then he slowly, evilly smiled.

Harry cleared his throat, laughing, and looked away from Draco and down to his knee. He could have replied hundreds of ways, but settled on a simple, dramatic, playful, careless, "_Ew_."

Draco could have died at the way Harry said "ew," like a little five year old boy running away from a girl, because she had cooties. But, Harry was smiling, too, though he wasn't laughing. At least, not until his eyes teasingly came up from his knees, and he playfully jabbed at Draco with them, twinkling. He was wearing a pointed, at-ease expression to match. Draco's smile turned into laughter, too, and he threw himself back in his chair, covering his eyes with his palms, separately, and continuing to sigh with pleased amusement, "Ew, fuck—being gay? _Ew_."

"_Ew_, I know. _God_."

Draco hands dropped to his chest, as he pulled his right shin out from under him and settled, "_Ew_."

"You feel no more "ew" than I do. I am less gay than you are. I like_ Quidditch_."

"Uh, no," Draco returned, with utmost seriousness. "My masculinity is totally _so_ much more secured than yours. I have a twenty-four inch dick that spasms whenever it HEARS the word Quidditch, and do you know what that means, Potter? It means I win—oh, and my dick also might have ears."

Harry threw his quill up into the air, with his left hand, as he laughed in utmost hysterics. He pointed the tip of his wand at the feather in his right hand. He muttered a spell at it, which left it lodged into the air. He had used it so many times in his life. Amused with it, he turned his attention back to Draco. He looked so comfortable but, at the same time, was bordering on this line of excessive boredom, by the way he was sprawled out over his chair, slouched, with his elbows resting on the sides of the chair and his palms laying over the sides of his face, and completely engaging activity by the way his mouth was set and his eyes were looking between Harry and the quill, lively and sparkling in the way they always did. Deciding he liked the latter, better, Harry flicked his wrist and the quill moved toward Draco.

Draco looked past it and to Harry, "Don't even dare try to torture me with a feather. I will make you writhe in agony you have _never_ experienced."

Harry inched his wand forward, and the feathered quill tip, just barely, brushed over the tip of Draco's nose.

Draco half-smiled, never having looked away from Harry's bright, unthreatening brown eyes, "_Charming_."

Harry smiled, genuinely, his lips closed together, before he flicked his wrist and watched the quill drop until it was out of his sight. He placed his wand back down on the desk they shared, between the massive amounts of papers and random things, around the house, they had used to separate their spaces, including books and heavy metal trinkets. So many things had been packed away and put into the attic to make room for all of the Order clutter. It was like it had never been a home, now, except for the studies which were still kept decorated fairly the same. But, all of the other rooms were used for Order purposes or sleeping purposes. So, there were all of these little things that he and Draco had spent a day or two, sitting in the attic, looking at, and they had taken a few with them because they were interesting or magnetic to their attractions and likes.

"Hogwarts in a couple of weeks—it's going to be so strange."

Draco looked at Harry. He was talking so quietly, staring at the four-poster queen-sized bed in no particular way. He was good at staring into space, Draco had decided. It worked well for him. He didn't look drugged or high, or even like he wasn't uninterested. He just looked like he was thinking about things that the space was discussing with him—in a non-crazy way, of course, "I wonder what's going to change. Besides the obvious. There's no way everything could be the same. With so many parents having been lost or injured in the war, I can't imagine some of the older kids coming back to school. They'd probably feel like they needed to stay and help with siblings. Or work. Our graduating motto should be _Obligations are a bitch_."

Harry blinked his eyes away from the bed and set them onto Draco, nodding along and agreeing more than he was sure Draco could possibly understand, "The Order members probably know what's going on. Dumbledore's always around. I'm sure he's asked for their help and opinions. I mean, Cornwell didn't seem surprised. Whatever was in that letter, he only needed to skim it before he tossed it down with ours."

"I bet the letters say something about the changes. It was a bit thicker, folded, than the usual."

"Yeah, I saw a couple of extra parchments."

Draco sat up, slowly, in his chair, and then leaned over his knees, from one extreme to the next, "We should go get them."

"You go get them. I'll stay here."

Draco looked up from the warm, woven, plush area rug he was used to walking on, "..."

Harry shrugged, wrapping his arms back around his knees, "I want to finish my journal entry."

Draco nodded, and, out of no where, the quill that had been resting on the floor, between his legs, shot up. It flew threw the air, in a circular whim of imaginary wind, and landed in Harry's outstretched left hand. With an eyebrow raise, Draco looked him over, suspiciously. What was Potter writing about, anyway? Hell, what was he _ever_ writing about? He was so engrossed in his journal, at times, and he would just write for hours, occasionally with a break here and there, and Draco would eventually tell himself that Harry must have been writing out his life story, with every detail of it, because Draco couldn't imagine writing so much about one random day and its events, especially when most of Harry's days were spent laying in bed and doing absolutely nothing. Then, again, it might have been a good thing for Harry, for it to be that way, because maybe what he was doing was collecting all of his lost thoughts and trying to organize himself in written form when his last years had been so hectic.

"All right. I'll leave you alone. Come down when you're done. Find me, we'll talk about it."

Harry looked at him, deeply.

Draco found this strange, as well as the silence that followed it, while he walked to the door, "_Hogwarts letters_."

"Oh," Harry quietly answered, and then gave a prompt nod, as if the tiny, unsolved moment had never happened. "I'll find you."

Draco stopped, at the door, with his back to it. His left hand wrapped around the doorknob, but he did not turn it. Harry had looked right back down at his journal. He already had it opened, in front and below him, and had started to write, halfway down his current journal page. A strange sort of surge began to pulse at the back of Draco's mind, and from his mind into his gut, where he felt a physical tug. He bit on his bottom lip, hard, to stop from saying anything that might have sounded paranoid. He forced himself to turn the doorknob, pushing aside the tiniest of a questionable syllable at the beginning of an unclear sentence in the back of his mind. He called it off as nothing.

Harry looked up, at that moment, and glanced at the door, as if to ask what was holding him up.

Draco held his gaze, for a long few moments, before slowly, cautiously stating, "You're all right."

Harry sat up a bit straighter. He shouldn't have hesitated as he did, because Draco caught it, "Yeah."

Draco heard that tiny little voice scratching away at the back of his mind, again, "If something was wrong..."

"I'd tell you," Harry immediately concluded, and turned to look back down at his journal. "Nothing _is_ wrong."

"There better not be, Harry."

Harry slowly looked up at him. Draco had just set out a flat-line threat in front of him. _Fuck_.

Draco gave the tiniest of nods, lowering his chin, as he ducked out of the room with the door, all the while staring at Harry. Something might have been wrong. Something might not have been wrong, aside from the obvious. There had been one moment where Draco had stepped out of his own perspective, of what he was used to seeing of Harry's behavior, and he had seen something slightly alarming. Granted, it was okay for Harry to write in his journal a lot. There didn't have to be anything sneaky about that, but the amount that he wrote in it... but, then, other times, he would say something about always keeping his thoughts in, which made Draco think that Harry wasn't writing about his thoughts, at all, in his journal, or else he wouldn't have been making certain kinds of comments.

A few minutes later, Draco and Harry sat down in their favorite study and opened Draco's letter.

Harry sat back, on his usual two-person couch, while Draco sat at the center on his three-person couch. Between their couches was a long, dark, unharmed coffee table, and on that coffee table was Harry's letter, two cups, a couple of books, the Daily Prophet and a few pieces of parchment they had used, when playing games, to write down their answers. They spent a lot of time in that very room when they weren't in the bedroom. They were two different atmospheres, but both very much offered the same amount of homey comfort in a house that was anything but easy-going, "Wait, before you read it," Harry interrupted, as Draco opened his mouth, "answer me something."

Draco silently met Harry's eyes.

Harry mentally squirmed, "What's wrong? What did I do?"

"Nothing," Draco admitted. "If something was wrong, I'd tell you." He paused. "Nothing _is_ wrong."

Though they both knew Draco was imitating Harry's earlier words, neither laughed. Draco thought Harry was hiding something, and Harry cornered him on it. Draco had answered the same exact way Harry had, which Harry knew to mean that Draco knew he was lying in saying that there was nothing wrong or nothing going on. What it was, Harry wasn't going to say. To anyone. Not yet. Not for a long time. It would be a regrettable move. It would be brilliant, or it would be the worst failure to have ever existed. Though, no one had caught on, or even seemed to notice, that there might have been something strange or out-of-the-ordinary going on with Harry, because he hadn't let anyone see that. He was good at hiding things. How Draco had figured it out—just the fact that there might have been something going on that Harry shouldn't have been keeping to himself—Harry wasn't fully sure, which was why he had asked Draco if there was something he had done wrong.

Harry's jaw clenched to one side, but he said nothing more, before looking back at the letter.

Draco cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the letter, as well, "As you well know, this summer and this last year have not been the easiest of times for anyone in our community. Witches, wizards, goblins, elves, giants, centaurs, and all of our other most notably important magical creatures and friends have all faced hardships, which I'm sure have not gone unabashed to the spirits of all youth alike. When you received this letter, your emotions might have been mixed. You may have felt hope, relief or joy. You may have felt anger and a sense of disinterest, or, in many cases, I'm sure you might not have felt a thing, either way, when you were delivered this letter of all letters. I, myself, have had trouble trying to decide how to write this to you, and I believe myself to be a man of all trades, never having faltered on writing a letter to my students. _Change_. Change is something we all must eventually face. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to send the standard letter of required materials to each of our students. This question of my own judgment came as my final and last problem deciding on anything to do with Hogwarts over this last summer. Debating about whether or not to open Hogwarts, this fall, was never a question of it being the safest. It was a question of it being the most comfortable for those who would not feel safe away from family members, from bad memories of the summer, or even standing in Hogwarts, having aged decades over the summer. Regrettably, we have all aged far too much in these last few months, and it saddens me most to acknowledge the stress of maturity that the students, new and old, alike, at Hogwarts, will have now experienced when they—you—next step into the Great Hall, when so much has changed."

"Here is where I share my heart with you, a hopeful student of Hogwarts. I have sent a long letter to your parents, explaining where and how things stand at Hogwarts. Your parent may or may not want you to read that letter, but, rest assured, if you do not, attending Hogwarts will seem easier. There are a few things your guardian has to decide before you are allowed back to Hogwarts. If you must know, which you should know, though you may eventually wish you had never asked to know, ask to read parts of the letter. If you do not, I will share with you some changes that Hogwarts has to, inevitably, make."

"Changes," Harry muttered, having been long awaiting hearing what may have been changed.

"I _lie_, I will not share these things with you, as you are a student, and I do not wish to burden you."

Harry's eyes shot up from the floor and to Draco, whose voice was high as he spoke the sentence through.

Draco's left eyebrow hooked up, as he continued, "Hogwarts is the safest place for you, as the youth of our community, to be. Any change that has been made to Hogwarts, itself, as an institution is only to further your protection, as it will never be weakened. I refuse for it to be, and have done everything in my power to assure you, as you read this, that Hogwarts is the safest place you could imagine in these times. However, because of the circumstances of these times, requirements have altered the attendance policies of Hogwarts. If you are a new student, and you have never seen Hogwarts, I merely want to express to you how majestically gigantic our school is. To those of you who have seen Hogwarts, you will not see the problem in the next statement—"'

"Ut oh," Harry groaned, with a laugh.

Draco laughed, too, his eyebrows raising up even further on his head, "Holy _shit_—Hogwarts has dropped its age requirement. Therefore you, as a student, who may usually have turned away from this letter, for reasons such as needing to be with siblings or helping with your family, should know that the school is opening its doors to both you and your family, provided certain paper-work and negotiations with your parents. If you need a home, here you have a home. If your parents do not wish to take shelter here, as many won't, you may still attend. But, for you, the idea of being separate from your family, at this time, may cause a high increase of anxiety, and because of that, such a new option has been opened—"

"Oh my MERLIN! Albus Dumbledore has _lost his mind_!" Harry was laughing, standing up, awed and stunned. He needed to get a hold of what he had just heard by taking some physical action. He ran both of his hands back through his hair and turned back to stare at Draco.

Draco spoke over Harry, half laughing on the outside and half feeling like he was misreading on the inside, "Some of you may be asking how this is possible. I ask you to take in the grand scheme of Hogwarts and think of all of the hallways, corridors, floors and empty wings of which you have never been, because your classes only veer off in certain proximity to each other. The families who are eligible to stay at Hogwarts are those with children who attend this school. There are ten students per year for each house. That's seventy students per house, which equals the possibility of having two-hundred and eighty families at Hogwarts. It is a large number, but I know, regrettably, many families will turn this option down, so I don't worry about the population aspect, as, I'm sure, if all two-hundred and eighty-families felt it best to be at Hogwarts, as one magical entity, with their children, we would somehow work it out. After all, I would not make such a large promise and write it in a letter to impressionable children if I did not have the means of making it happen."

Harry sat down next to Draco.

"Perhaps your parents will not be pleased I have relayed this option, to you, that I gave to them. I understand why they might be angry with me, but, at this point, having as many options as possible seems like the best situation as possible. Need they not agree, it is their own opinion. But, for now, I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and what I say goes. Hopefully, what I say also begs of you to attend Hogwarts. Oh, and, one more thing, Hogwarts students will be mostly isolated from their families, if they wish, and will go on with the school year as if it were normal. It depends upon the student, the family and their wishes. It is, my dear child, your world. It is not an easy world. It is not a normal world. I am giving you the choice to step up. I am giving you the opportunity to look at your options, as an eleven year old, to attend this school by yourself, with plenty of students in the same situations, or a seventh year returning, having lost school mates and family members. For you, my dear seventh years, I know you have seen a lot, undoubtedly more than any graduating class at Hogwarts... _ever_. I wish for you to make your choices as young men and young women, not as children. I wish for you to return to Hogwarts. I wish for you to convince your families it'd be best for you to come, or for them to come with you, and I encourage you to make sure you understand that there is no safer place for you than right here at Hogwarts, in your common rooms and in your classrooms. Your education is the best thing for you, war or no war."

Harry was leaned against Draco's shoulder, as the letter was finished being read. His right arm slipped across Draco's, and he pointed at the bottom of the page, "Your parents have been given permission to send me howlers. If you so choose I have overstepped a boundary, feel free to get my information from their letter. _Somewhat Hesitantly_ _Yours_, Albus Dumbledore." He took the letter from Draco and skimmed over it, in awe over what had just been read to him. He wanted to make sure he had heard right, because the idea of Dumbledore opening up the school to entire families was... was... brilliant! Brilliant, but a _whole_ lot of work!

"We get the option of taking _three_ electives this year, Potter—I guess he wants to keep our minds engaged."

Harry leaned into Draco's arm, again, slouched beside him in the couch, to look at the letter Draco was holding. It was the standard school letter with all of the required materials for the next year's curriculum. In bolded print, Harry could see a line that assured that all materials would be available for purchase at the school and that there was no need to try and buy them elsewhere—as in to ask no one stray into Diagon Alley to get their schoolbooks, like the shops would have even been open, anyway, if they didn't need to be, "Three? _Philosophy_!"

Draco grinned, elbowing Harry, barely at all, playfully, on his stomach, relaxed with him, "What else?"

Harry looked over the list of classes, with interest, his left shoulder slightly behind Draco's, "I chose Philosophy. You choose one." He offered, turning his attention back to Dumbledore's letter, having to read over some of it, again.

"Art might be amusing," Draco answered.

"Interesting," Harry added. "That's two. We need three—I wonder if parents will really send him howlers."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Draco laughed, still looking over the list of impressive course titles. "I don't want to choose. You choose."

Harry rested his cheek down on Draco's shoulder, sunken way more than he was, now, "Draco-Smells-Good-One-oh-One."

"Sexual-Orientation: The Debate of Wanting Penis or—"

Harry threw his head back and laughed, "Don't be an arse."

Draco grinned, "Oh, for a moment I thought you were going to believe it was a real class."

"You could teach it."

Draco folded the letter up, abruptly, and turned toward Harry, who stayed just as complacent, "_Could I_?"

"You think with it most of the time, Malfoy, I don't see why you couldn't take advantage of that to teach it."

Draco slapped Harry's cheek with the letter, "Leave my sex drive out of this."

"How is that possible? We're _talking _about your sex drive."

"..."

Harry smiled, as Draco pulled the letter out of his hands and tossed it, along with the curriculum letter, onto the coffee table. He stayed sitting up, doing something with his hands on the table. Harry's eyes strangely began to wander—and, not in an intrusive way. At first they took in Draco's shoulders, and he mentally complimented the nice structure, which made Harry's thoughts switch to Draco's frame and build, in general, which, once more, Harry complimented. From every one compliment to the next, another new thing about Draco took over his mind, and his eyes would travel to this new spot. He took in the way Draco's shirt fell over his back, and how his arms were just perfect, being that he was lean, but they weren't skinny or wiry. They were a nice, good size. He seemed to be just the right amount of this and that for Harry's taste, which was a little awkward, because Draco's body was overwhelmingly similar to his own, both as Judas and as Harry, himself. Remembering, once more, that he was Judas, Harry rolled his eyes at the reaction he was getting off of examining Draco's back, "Malfoy."

Draco looked over his right shoulder, "What?"

Harry lifted his left hand from his thigh and dropped it on Draco's left shoulder, "I'm having a conflict with myself."

Draco squinted, awkwardly. The conversation was clearly meant to go somewhere. He turned more, "And?"

"I think Judas is gay."

Draco snorted, "I think I've mentioned that to you on more than one occasion."

"No, I know," Harry quietly returned, still sober of laughter. He was being serious, and Draco seemed to now sense it, because he stopped looking like he was going to roll his eyes at the topic being discussed, yet again, in a playful way. "But, we joked about it. I didn't know he was seriously gay."

"I don't know, either, Harry," Draco admitted, more softly. Harry looked at him with confused eyes. "_Rumors_, that's all I've ever gone off of. There was a boy named JC—it's a little strange, actually, their names? Judas and JC?" Harry slapped his forehead, and Draco realized Harry had never thought it if in that way. "Yeah, people teased about it, at first. They were best friends. Judas has a way, you know. He's pretty—but, he was always very showy. He wasn't afraid to make people think things about him that might not have been true. He was just really affectionate with his friends—girls and boys. He developed a reputation, but I'm fairly positive, reputation or not, he was—_is_, I guess—into JC. They're total opposites, too. You'd never even think them to be friends. Judas is really clean cut, as you'll know—being, well, him. JC is rougher. Equally as good-looking, just not nearly as pulled together. He doesn't give a damn about what he wears. He's pretty reclusive, too, that I know of. He's never out and about—"

"Malfoy," Harry interrupted, suddenly. "Why hasn't he tried to contact me?"

Draco went to respond. His lips slowly melted back together, and he stared at Harry.

Harry frowned, "If they were so close and always together, why hasn't he sent me... _anything_?"

"I don't know, maybe they got into a fight."

"No, I mean... I mean... before this happened, Judas and I were in this... _place_."

"Cornwell said—yeah! A different plain or something, right?"

Harry nodded, "Sort-of—but, I don't know. We never talked about him. At all. He wasn't even mentioned."

"_Really_?"

"Yeah. I've been thinking about it for a couple of weeks. It seems strange to me." Harry frowned. "No one has tried to contact me, Malfoy. Judas had friends. I saw them. He told me about them."

"Maybe it's because of me. I don't suppose Judas mentioned his severe distaste for my life?"

Harry laughed, "No, he definitely did not. I knew about the situations with your mothers, but that was all. He never harbored anger when we talked about you, and we did. We had to talk about quite a few things, actually. I don't remember half of it, or even more than ten minutes of it, really. I don't even know how long we talked. But, we did. Sometimes, little random things come back to me, especially lately," he admitted, with hesitance to do so. "But, this JC, I've yet to hear a word from him—I mean, Maureen was _murdered_. You think he'd send a letter, if not come see me—Judas—_whoever_—in person. I feel like something either has to be extremely wrong, like something happened to him, or there's something going on Judas didn't know about—something bad. Bad—bad, _very bad_."

'Wait, Potter," Draco insisted, as Harry got up and walked around the couch. "What do you mean?"

"It's just really suspicious, Malfoy. I mean, even you and I, right now. You're the Minister's son—he disappeared. Granted, we don't listen to the news very much, but YOU have, pretty much, disappeared off the face of the earth, as has your mother. And myself! What are people saying? What are they thinking? What's going to happen when we show up at Hogwarts and no one has seen us in the last month? What if there's more going on than just this? I feel like Dumbledore can't be controlling everything."

"He's not," Draco muttered. "There is a lot more going on than you're supposed to know."

"I know that—I mean something on an even more grand scale. I mean, why Judas Cliffdale? Why would the Death Eaters be after Gregarold, Maureen or Alex, anyway? That I know of, Gregarold made sure he never had anything to do with Voldemort. Why would your father—Lucius—why would Voldemort send him to off Gregarold, of all people? I know he's very powerful in the Dark Arts, but wouldn't Voldemort want to befriend him, to get those secrets, rather than kill him and have those secrets go to the grave with him? And, why hasn't Voldemort attacked the Cliffdales again? If he wanted Gregarold dead, why isn't he always on the defensive? It's almost like... like... like everyone is lying. To each other."

"Whoa," Draco interrupted, barely at all, pulling Harry from the door. They had only been whispering as quietly as they could. "Do you think... you mean... but, why would anyone want to work _with_ Voldemort? Powerful men, I mean. They know he's going down, regardless of whatever else is going on. There's _no way_ Gregarold Cliffdale would risk his own son—he loved Judas, Alex—Maureen—I just don't—"

"What if they're not dead? What if they set this all up? What if Voldemort knows I'm me? What if this was the plan, all along, to set up Cornwell? To set up Dumbledore? To set up me? Draco—" Harry grasped his shoulders. "There are all of these _what ifs_ going through my head, and none of them have answers. None of them seem any less reasonable than anything else, right now. I don't trust Gregarold, Draco." He leaned in closer and clasped Draco's cheeks in his hands. "I don't even trust Dumbledore. Not Cornwell. Not even you. I can't trust anyone, because anyone could be lying to me, directly or indirectly."

"Harry, I swear on my life—"

"Go ahead, Draco. You can swear, but that doesn't mean you mean it."

"I do mean it."

"You say that, Draco, but how do I know if you're telling the truth?"

"Harry," Draco cut him off, and squeezed his hands over Harry's, hard, on his face, "_I am telling you the truth_."

"I know," Harry returned, staring into the intensely light eyes staring back into his own. "I trust you, Draco, at least more than I trust Dumbledore, who has been like my pseudo-grandfather over the years. You understand me,_ right_ here: You're all I have. You're my_ only_ friend. I don't have a family. You _are_ my family. You are _one_ person. I don't have parents to turn back to. I don't have aunts and uncles to go talk to. My best friends in the world—aside from Ron—have turned their backs on me for one reason or another—and, when Ron finds out I'm alive, eventually, I'm not sure he'll forgive me. I've had a hell of a life, and most of it has been based on lies—so, just know that I do trust you, more than anyone, and, I swear to God, Draco, if you lie to me, and you're somehow against me, even though I know you're not, I will rip into your chest, with my hands, and tear out your heart."

"And, what about you lying to me, Harry? Doesn't it go both ways?"

"I _am_ lying to you, Draco," Harry whispered, immediately, "but, lying to you is lying to a person. Lying to me is lying to an entire fight, If you—if anyone I care about, right now—end up having been lying to me, it will have been made that way to prevent me from doing the one good thing I'm meant to do, for the good of everyone. If I lie to you, to anyone, it _is_ for the good of us all. I don't want to lie to you, but you understand, don't you?"

"Harry, what are you doing?" Draco immediately grabbed him back, when he went to walk for the door.

Harry didn't struggle, "Nothing—_nothing_!"

"You're lying to me! I'm asking you, because I AM your one friend, Potter—tell me what the_ fuck_ is going on, or I will go tell Cornwell what the fuck you've been up to, and he will confiscate your damn journal to figure it out for himself, or I will steal it and read it."

Harry allowed Draco to stop him from moving, again, "I can assure you that I've not written anything, in my journal, that has anything to do with what is going on." He paused, while Draco waited, patiently, with darkly narrowed eyes. "It's a story. I work on it to get out of my head. Do you honestly think I would write a journal with my most private thoughts, Draco? I'm not _that_ stupid. My thoughts are my own, accessible only to me, and I've practiced many nights and guarded myself, for longer than I might have possibly wanted, to keep it that way."

Draco dropped his hands from Harry's upper arms, finally, and stepped backward, "Fine, Potter. I have no fucking choice, either fucking way, to let you walk out of this room like nothing is wrong. Whatever it fucking is, it better not get you killed, arse-hole, _again_. DEAD, as in you wouldn't be COMING back. If you've got some brilliant fucking plan, in your head, think long and hard about how you might FUCK things up, for our entire world, just because you have an idea—this is way above you, now, Harry."

"It's not above me, Malfoy!" Harry exclaimed, wildly. "_I_ have to kill him! No one else can do that."

"What happens if you walk into a trap?"

'I don't walk into his traps, Malfoy. I stumble into them, and history is proof of that! He's waiting for me. Somewhere. Maybe he's listening to me, right now. Maybe he knows everything about me. Maybe he knows me like the back of his hand—he's a powerful thing, Malfoy. A monster. But, he's fucking brilliant. He has the capabilities of spells we've never dreamed. The possibilities are endless, and if he knows everything or anything about me, at this point, he's going to know the same things when I go to kill him, when it's "okay," in some planned-out battle—we don't DO planned out, battles, Draco. We're not the Ministry. We're not on each other's teams. He has his followers, but they won't battle the way he does. I have the Order, but I won't battle the way they do. It has nothing to do with them. Neither of us is trying to fight the other for the FIGHT, Draco. It comes down to one thing and one thing only—he dies and I live, or I die and he lives—it has nothing to DO with blood, now. It's his mortality that he wants, and he could care less about any damn one of his followers who stands between it and me. If he offs me, _then_ it'll be about blood, but until then, he's waiting, He thinks I'm a tease—as Judas, or Harry, or whoever he thinks I am—and, I can nearly feel it in my veins."

Draco stared.

Harry turned around from a window, "As long as my blood runs though _his_ veins, he can feel it, too. He wants it. He wants it over. He wants his power back. I need to find the advantage, somewhere. Every time I have faced him, in the past, it has been chance that got me there and luck that got me out. I never planned to show up and duel him to death. I never even tried to kill him, and he nearly killed me every time. A plan _is _needed, Draco—not a plan that fourth years can figure out. Not a plan that Dumbledore will catch before I go into it—something that passes all of them and gets me right to the source. It has to be perfect. And, I have to be perfect for it. I can't wait around, anymore, Draco! Every day, I am less and less like Harry Potter and more and more like Judas Cliffdale, because he's the only one of us, right now, whose had a stable life. He's easier to adjust to. His family isn't even mine, and I fondly recall memories he told me about them—you just don't get it. No one _gets_ it. No one else, in the world, is Harry Potter, with Harry Potter's conscience, or Harry Potter's pressure—and, no one else understands that Harry Potter isn't going to sit around and wait for the Order of the Phoenix to devise something, while they're already fighting a war. Their minds are clouted, and if someone did devise a plan, it could easily get back to Voldemort, had we a spy in the house. It's up to me to figure it out."

"You're fucking... Potter, you can't... you're not supposed to... I know you're... just..." Draco rubbed over his heart, subconsciously, but then slid his hand up to his neck and then to his jaw. He clutched it, agonizing with what to say. "I know everything you just said is the truth, Harry; It's your fight. I know you feel you have to take it upon yourself—any, maybe you probably should, and everyone knows it—but... Harry, there is SO much they haven't told you. Maybe they know something you don't. Cornwell told me that there is an extraordinary amount which has gone over your head—more than we could probably even guess. Trust him, Harry. Please. Wait it out for awhile more. Don't jump into something, it's dangerous. And, if Voldemort does know you're you, he will probably will expect you to do be rash and impatient, because you always have been. He knows you, Harry, like you know him. He knows you want it done with. He knows you can assume how much he wants you dead. He knows your pride, Potter—it's your biggest, most _obvious_ flaw—you have a big, good heart. You're the model Gryffindor, for Fuck's sake. He's not banking on your patience. At this point, the best thing you can do is make HIM wait. Make him CONTINUE to GUESS, Potter—WAIT, WAIT, WAIT—Potter! WAIT!"

Harry looked at him.

Draco threw his hands out, "What the fuck, Potter! Voldemort DOES think you're dead! What the fuck are we even talking about?"

Harry looked away, "He knows something's not right. Something's going on, Malfoy. I can feel it."

"He saw you die, Potter."

"If he's working with Gregarold, Draco, it was a setup—"

"You're being monumentally paranoid. He's not working with any of these men, Potter. They're on the good side."

"How do you know, Malfoy?"

"I just _do_."

Harry looked at him, "That's supposed to be good enough?"

"No, it's supposed to be good enough that my father was your father's best friend, who started the Order of Phoenix _with _him, whose fight is OLDER than yours, and almost equally as just, being as how they _were_ your parents, but still, there's no fucking way Cornwell would be trying to harm you, in any way. He's not hovering over you, Harry, like Dumbledore has always done. Dumbledore's working with the Order, okay? Cornwell's on your wavelength more than I think you realize. Trust him, Harry. Don't screw him over, not after everything he's done for you."

Harry looked away, quickly, and Draco knew he had struck a rare chord. For once. _Finally_.

"Harry, if you don't want to be the weapon, and if you want the answers to all of your questions, go sit it on the meetings all day. Perhaps it's time you should."

Harry turned further away, silent.

Draco watched him, awkwardly, "Just tell me you don't have a plan that's going to get us all killed."

Draco feared that response. He stepped backward, for the door, "Pretend to care about what I have to say, even if I'm not as _important_ as you are to the world. Pretend to care that I actually do care about you, Harry, and if you get killed, you will fucking _KILL_ me. I'll hate myself, forever, because I was never important enough for you to listen to, and even though I asked you and asked you, you still fucking ignored me. Don't ignore me, Potter—I'm telling you not to do anything rash." He ran his hand back through his hair. He saw Harry turn his head, to the left, slightly over his shoulder, as if to relay the message that he was listening and not ignoring Draco. "Wait it _out_, Potter. No one has been able to kill Voldemort, thus far, and even if you are the Boy-Who-Lived, there is still a lot about him that is unknown, and just because you shoot Avada Kedavra at him doesn't mean he's going to fall down and die. You said so yourself, Potter, he's brilliant. He has means we've never known about or seen—he's a legend, above all other things, because of his skill. I don't want you dying, Potter, when you could have held off." There was a long pause, before Draco, just barely, managed to murmur, "Don't screw _me_ over, Harry."

Draco didn't realize that this chord was a whole lot more sensitive than the one about Cornwell had been.

Once Harry saw Draco leave, in the window's reflection, he turned around and flung himself onto the couch.

Draco was right. Everyone was right. He needed to wait.

Except, Harry knew they were wrong. They were so wrong for being right that it was wrong.

Harry knew Voldemort wasn't working with Gregarold. He knew Voldemort thought he was dead. He could feel it, at night, before he went to bed. He could nearly hear Voldemort's voice, in strange situations, and it always sounded laced with almost human-like glee, innocent and pure. What Harry hated, most of all, was thinking about Voldemort, and that was what drove him, every day, toward the idea of needing to act when Voldemort wasn't expecting it. He needed to act on his own. He needed to act before word leaked out that he was alive. It was impossible for something of that magnitude to be kept inside the tightest of circles. He knew it would eventually leak—someone would eventually break and become a spy for Voldemort. Maybe it was paranoia or maybe it was pure knowing and a sense of what was going to come. He had been around his fair share of traitors, and had been around plenty of situations enough to give him reason for never trusting anyone completely. Someone was always lurking, waiting for Harry Potter, in the shadows.

Judas Cliffdale had been visited by one Voldemort, in dream-state, every other night of the last week.

Harry was absolutely positive that Voldemort had no idea and not an inkling, and why should he have?

Harry let him believe that Voldemort was breaking him down, getting into his mind, trying to get him to turn against his supposed "father," Gregarold. He was always trying to talk Harry into it. He was the smoothest, most conniving, manipulative person Harry ever could have imagined. The way he worked was incredible. Had Harry not had a good grasp on his entire being, it would have been easy for Voldemort to pull him in, as Judas, and he had let Judas go to it. He had played the part, and because he had, at times truly succumbing to questions and the answers Voldemort offered him, Voldemort saw him as more and more genuine.

Harry had an excellent base of a foundation. However, questions of Voldemort's had been hard to dodge. Harry had to start answering questions—about where he was, who he was with, what was going on... Voldemort knew Judas was with Draco, but other than that, he knew of nothing but the fact that Draco, Narcissa and Cornwell had moved out of the Malfoy Estate and Death Eaters had ripped it apart looking for them. It was obvious that Voldemort might have thought Harry—Judas, really—was up to something, because he was, most likely, with the Order, which meant he was always around them. But, he let Voldemort pull him in. He let Voldemort believe he was a weak link, and he did get sucked in, more, every night, playing it up as if he were not Harry Potter. It was easy to play Judas as a lost kid trying to find himself after tragic events. It was also disgustingly believable, because Harry wasn't necessarily pretending.

That night, Harry turned to look at Draco.

It was dark. Draco had been asleep for awhile. Harry hadn't. He turned into Draco, fully, and tilted his face down to the opposite, peaceful one. He rested his forehead, just barely, against Draco's. The tip of his nose repeated the same tiny touch against Draco's nose, as his eyes floated down between their faces. He closed his eyes and lowered his mouth, shakily—and, then it happened. It was slight. Quick. It could have been accidental and thought of as nothing, had it happened from a run in or something of the sort. But, it was intentional. Purposeful. It was wanted. By Harry. It didn't have a reason attached to it. He did it because Draco was... pretty much... the best friend he had ever had. Ron, sure, had always been his best friend, and Harry still loved him and missed him, but Draco... was a different sort of friend. Their relationship was stellar. It was teasing. It was taunting. It was harsh, but a hundred times more loving. They had gone from intense enemies to intense friends. Draco wasn't just the kind of friend to stand by his side or battle with him. He was the kind of friend to have Harry stand at his side, or have Harry battle with him. There was no _Harry Potter_ stigma attached to their ultimate relationship, because Draco's sense of self was far too evolved as a Malfoy—someone brought up with just as much power and prestige as Harry had ultimately been given. There had been an understanding running between them. The kiss? The kiss was _just_ a kiss, in case something happened and Harry would never get to explore what the possibility was.

Though, he immediately fought with himself for doing it, lifting his mouth away.

Draco was still sound asleep, his features all peaceful and relaxed.

"If you were awake, you'd never let me live this moment down, and if you somehow remember this, I will deny it, and I can't believe I'm actually saying this and having to defend myself to a half-asleep Malfoy, but: you are so beautiful, it makes me sick." Harry murmured, pathetically, with a heavy chest. He pressed his lips down against Draco's forehead, more heavily, and rested down, again, a bit more, so Draco had to be moved to feel the change in position. And, he did, because he sort of went to bury himself into Harry, a bit more, in his sleep. It was the kind of contact Harry was searching, hoping and praying for. He wanted Draco to hear him, in a state of drowse. He nudged Draco's chin, with his mouth, and Draco made the smallest of murmurs, which Harry immediately reacted upon. "If you need me, open my journal and read it."

Draco was awake enough to hear him, but not awake enough to register it, "Mmmph."

Harry buried his face into the pillow over Draco's shoulder and clutched him in a hug, overwhelmed, "Please don't hate me. _Please_."

Eventually, Harry got up, in the trousers he had never changed out of that day, and walked toward the window. Once it was open, Harry pulled out Judas Cliffdale's wand. It was the wand he had been using from day one as the Cliffdale heir. He looked it over, in his hand. He felt like he was truly hurting, and a heavy weight began to press down on his back and his arms, and he wondered how stupid he might have been, to be standing there, in front of the open window, about to apparate out—something he had never done, before, because he knew it had been dangerous. The option had always been there for him. Truth was, he could have left at any time, but he had known better.

Harry turned around, to look back at Draco, his guilt getting the best of him, as he pressed the wand to his throat.

Draco was sitting up, fully, looking horrified. Suddenly, he jumped into action and half-flew, half-stumbled off of the bed, "Potter, don't do it!"

_Poof._

The last thing Draco heard was a, "Fuck!" from a despaired, never-having-closed mouth and a pair of huge, guilt-ridden, deep brown eyes. The image was etched into his mind, he was sure, forever, but he didn't have time to think it over. He was out of his room within seconds and in the main dining room seconds later, having thrown the doors open and barged in on some resting Order members who often fell asleep at the table while working. "WHERE'S CORNWELL?" Draco screamed at them, which they all jumped at. Coffee spilled, here and there, and some papers slipped off the table from the whirl of wind the sudden movements had created in response to Draco's hurried demand. But, he was out of the dining room as soon as he saw that no one was in the right state or mood to answer him. "CORNWELL! CORNWELL!" He stormed into the kitchen, meeting a hugely wide-eyed Cornwell, who had seemed to jump up to go to meet him when his name had just been yelled.

Cornwell was not alone in the kitchen. Lupin was with him, as were a few other more trusted members of the Order.

Draco clutched his chest, out of breath, but then threw his hands out to Cornwell's chest, "Harry! He apparated! He's gone! He left! He was—earlier—he had some plan—or something—he wasn't going to—and, I heard him say something, and I woke up, and he's standing by the window, and he's got Judas's wand, and I went to lung at him, but he apparated—he's gone."

"FUCK!" It was a common consensus around the table, and everyone was immediately springing out of the room to get to other rooms, leaving Draco just standing there, with his hands on the top of his head, staring into Cornwell's eyes.

When the room cleared, Cornwell pulled Draco's shoulder toward him and embraced him.

"He's so fucking STUPID," Draco fumed, refusing to cry. "He'll get himself killed—"

"Draco. _Draco_," Cornwell interrupted him, "calm down."

"Why are YOU so calm? Calm UP!" Draco irrationally shouted at him, panicked and confused. "Potter probably just ran off to—"

"Wherever he went off to do, Draco, is his right. I thought he would have been gone a week ago. I offered Remus a bet, but he's not a betting man, and made sure to tell me so, even as I am hardly a betting man, myself. He thought Harry would have been gone a week ago, too."

Draco was so unbelievably confused. He couldn't utter a word, because he had too many questions.

Cornwell walked behind Draco, took his shoulders and led him toward the kitchen table, "He'll be okay."

"But—isn't this what you were supposed to PREVENT?"

"That was the _idea_, yes," Cornwell said, as he sat Draco down, and then sat next to him. "I wasn't trying to prevent anything. I told you, Draco—Dumbledore has a plan for Harry. Harry has a plan for _himself_. He was all over the place, today. He's been sleeping so much, but he was so tired this morning; It was in his eyes—he was tired of _waiting_, not physically tired. It was draining him."

"I don't understand why you're not panicked that he's going to FUCK everything up!"

"He won't, Draco, and if he does, who's to say something wouldn't go wrong when it was the "right" time?"

"He could get himself killed."

"Oh, Draco," Cornwell suddenly murmured and draped his arm over Draco's shoulders. "That... is what Harry would have to face, anyway. He'll die or he'll survive."

Draco dropped his head down onto the wooden table, "I fucking hate him right now."

Draco distinctly heard something from Cornwell in terms or relation to, "_Love him_."

"He's my best friend—it's so fucking weird—_everything_ with him is so fucking weird—special—_strange_."

"You're both weird-special-strange kids," Cornwell threw at him, but Draco sat up and glared. "Look... I told you, weeks ago, that Harry wasn't under anyone's thumb, no matter who thinks they've got him. He's loyal. He loves Dumbledore. But, Harry is his own man, now. This is his house." He sort of motioned around and looked up at the ceiling, and then Draco followed his eyes, as if to realize it, too, in a way he hadn't before. "He's been through a lot, Draco. Whatever happens, now, _happens_. By now, every Order member has been contacted from the people who just darted out of here. Dumbledore will be over here in a pop—everything, Draco, from here on out, is under Dumbledore's control. Much as I've told you about the way Dumbledore looks at Harry, I don't doubt he's been expecting this. Harry Potter is _still_ Harry Potter. He's been calling the shots, regarding his own fate, for years; Time of war is hardly different. I don't want you to panic, and I know that's a lot to ask, and it seems _ridiculous_ to ask, but... you know him, Draco. He's... Harry." He paused. "Trust the best to come out of this, because assuming Harry is in danger is going to make you think about it all of the time."

"I'm going to think about it all of the time, either way, Cornwell!" Draco protested, so shaky with emotion.

"I'm telling you to trust Harry, Draco."

"I do trust Harry. I just don't want him to get killed."

"Harry won't get killed."

Draco screamed into his hands, and he swore he heard the whole house freeze into silence. But, did Cornwell? No. Perhaps he had seen it coming. He looked at Cornwell, who hadn't stopped the small circular rub he had been giving Draco's left shoulder with his left hand's thumb, "I think Harry's as powerful as you do, Cornwell, but he's not fucking _invincible_! Voldemort ALREADY killed him once! Everyone seems to be overlooking that—_including_ Harry!"

"He was invincible on his first birthday, Draco. He loathes Voldemort too much to get killed by him—the universe is too much on Harry's side to let him get into that situation. It just won't happen—put it out into the world, Draco. I know you think I think he's invincible, like he can't die—I know just as much as you do that he's just a seventeen year old kid, like you, who burps and fails and can't do jack when it comes to potions, okay? But, that's a different Harry Potter than the Harry Potter who just apparated out of the _Order of the Phoenix_. He knows what he had, here. He could have waited. He's _been_ waiting. Draco, had he thought it was the best idea to do so. To me, the kid pretty much is invincible. He's not super-human. He trips over his feet, and he never brushes his hair—and you two have some sort of confusing, hormonal relationship going on—okay, I _know _that he's already dead. I know Voldemort killed Harry Potter, already—okay? But, Harry was too fucking strong to die—that DOES make him invincible, Draco. He's not going anywhere. You're going to have to trust that."

Draco growled, pushed himself up and turned toward the doorway, where he ran into his mother.

Narcissa's eyes enlarged so very much, and she immediately stopped him, "What? What is it?"

Draco cried, frustrated, finally. It was mostly irrational tears, "Harry—_he's a fucking idiot_. He left."

"What?" She gasped and looked at Cornwell, as if she hadn't heard Draco right and needed more input, still holding Draco from leaving, clasping his wrists in her own hands. "He _left_?"

The kitchen, then, exploded with people, and, in the commotion, Draco got away from his mother. As he walked toward the stairs, down the hallway, he seethed to the universe, "I swear to God, Potter, if you think the next time we see each other, you're not going to get hexed into oblivion, assuming, of course, you're not dead, you have another _delusional_ thing coming," he threatened the air around him, hoping, somehow, Harry could hear him make the threat or just acknowledge the fact that Draco was going to feel quite agitated that he had left, abruptly,_ by himself_. "_Idiot_."

"_Malfoy_?"

Draco slowly turned around, and his eyes landed on a red-headed, tall boy of seventeen, standing there. _Weasley_? Not just one Weasley, either, but two. Weasley and his sister. Had he not been so distracted, and perhaps if he didn't like Potter so much, he might have thrown a childish insult over at the two of them. But, he had no reason to. Quite frankly, it was perfectly fitting that they were there, even being that it was early in the morning hours. At Harry's request, the Weasleys had not been told that Harry was Harry, and, when Arthur and Molly were around, he was spoken of as Judas. They weren't the only people it had been kept from, because the only people who truly knew Judas was Harry had been in the room the day Draco had outed him. No one else had been told. It was just the regulars, most of whom actually slept and lived at Grimmauld place, anyway.

Draco was hardly in the mood to waste his time on being petty, "Weasley?"

"It's true, then, the rumors. You are staying here."

"No, actually, I'm not. I'm walking around, half naked, in a stranger's house, just for the hell of it—_of course I'm staying here, Weasley_." He grumbled his disdain, mentally, for the conversation, and then set his eyes onto the red-headed girl behind Ron. She was eyeing him, and, after a couple of seconds, during which Draco felt mildly amused, he took a step backward. He wanted to get back upstairs and continue to curse Potter's entire existence. No, he just wanted to be alone. "As flattering as your eye-lingering may be—not so much flattering as uncomfortable and annoying—I'm not much in the mood to be silently fawned over. If you'll excuse me, I'm quite exhausted, as it has been a long day, and I'm quite worried about my best friend's fate, I'm going to go to sleep." He started up the first step and called, since he had lost them in his range of view a couple of seconds before, as he had been walking down the hallway while bidding them farewell. "_Try not to break anything_."

_Damnit, Potter_.

When Draco was back in the bedroom he had been sharing with Harry, he threw some vicious words around and, somewhere in between slurring obscenities, muttered a spell for the candles to ignite. They did, and Draco tossed his wand away from him, not trusting himself to have it when he was feeling so utterly betrayed. It was betrayal. He was furious that Harry had left, even if he knew, ultimately, it was the right thing for Harry to have done. He should have been preparing for an occurrence, such as the one he, and the rest of the house, was dealing with.

Draco combed both of his hands back through his hair, with eager, itching fingertips. He strolled over toward their desks, noticing that all of Harry's possessions were still there. He hadn't had anything when he had apparated away. Draco's state didn't give him much of a conscience or a sense of privacy to Potter's—not Harry's, not right then—material possessions. Possession! Son of a bitch, Draco was possessive of him, and what was he getting back? Nothing. Potter had screwed him over and left him to sit there, by himself, and wonder what in the fuck was going on and where Harry Potter was, what he was doing, and if he was okay. He was in for a rough rest of the holiday, and probably a rough school-year. He couldn't think about it! All he could do was think about Potter's stupid, stereo-typical personality flaw.

Draco walked around to Harry's side of the desk. His attention set right onto Harry's journal, and, without hesitance, he threw the heavy, hard-cover off of the waiting pages. He didn't know what he was after. He wanted to invade Potter's life. He wanted in to Potter's mind. He wanted Potter to somehow feel that Draco was invading the journal Harry had nearly been protecting with what was left of his life. And, he held his hands to his sides as he glanced down at the one page facing up at him. It was blank except for some scribbled, scratchy writing in the center.

Draco leaned down, a bit, adjusting his eyes.

_Draco :D :D :D :D :D! Enjoy._

"What in the bloody... hell," Draco hissed, slightly appalled with Potter's use of little smiley faces and half amused with them at the same time. No—he was completely amused, and had he not been trying to stay focused on cursing Potter's existence, he might have let himself mull over how endearing such a message to Draco was—anyway, why WAS there a message to Draco? Oh, good lord, he was such a fucking idiot. As he plopped down into Potter's chair, he sighed and dropped his mouth to his palm, which was being supported by his bent elbow on the wooden armrest. His eyes stared at the journal before him, and he then lifted his face from his palm and reached forward to the journal. He took it in his left hand, his thumb holding over the split of the page.

Potter must have had been planning on leaving for a long, long time.

Draco licked his fingertip and then bravely, without hesitance, flipped the page to see what it was that awaited him—to see what it was that he had been watching Harry write for longer than he wished he had been there to see. There was a title—again, at the center of the page—and it read, "Pristine Shoelaces." Draco snorted and flipped the page, again. This page was far more progressive and evident of the work Harry spent so much time furiously working away at. It was littered with words on the right side, and the left side, on the page of the supposed title page, was a scribbled scene that Draco find rather impressive. As soon as he began to read, he started to smile and relax back into the chair. It had nothing to do with Hogwarts, or magic, and everything to do with two little boys comparing shoelaces, in an attempt to rid themselves of boredom, on a hot summer day, while they drank lemonade and sat on a patch of grass they had lovingly entitled Sido—as Harry put it, Sido was a distant relative of a patch of grass Draco had never been fond of, but Harry had, named... _Fido_.

Draco stood up with the book in his hand, laughing and walking toward the bed, "Potter, you are truly a question mark, but you had outdone your fucking self this time," he told himself, slightly in awe of what he was reading. Potter had actually been writing stories in his journal. STORIES. Not thoughts or rants, but actual fucking stories of people who hadn't ever existed, before. But, now the existed, and they had names—names Draco mused over. One was named Perry, and the other was named Waco—and, Perry recalled, in the story, that he was sorry some school boys had once referred to Waco as Wacko-Waco. Of this anecdote, as he fell onto his back onto the bed, and into the mess of blankets and pillows he usually loved to dissolve into, Draco snorted with laughter and found himself eagerly turning the page, "_This shit is amazing_."

Draco fell asleep with the book opened over his chest, but clutched in his protective, delighted hands. He only feel asleep, because he had finished reading Pristine Shoelaces, which had been a ten page short story. When he had finished reading, he had let the book rest on his chest, only taking his hands away, once, to rub over his face as he took in a strangely intense deep breath and tried to rationalize all of the emotion he had just taken out of a tiny short story. Perry and Waco were, undoubtedly, little versions of himself and Harry, and the whole story of Perry and Waco—as Draco had peeked into the next story, to see that Waco and Perry were still the characters—was the story that had never been between them. It was what could have been, had they been little, innocent but still with some of the same traits. And, of those negative traits Draco was sure Harry hated about him, they were written in sweetly and came off that way, too. What Draco took away from it was astounding. Just the fact that Potter could write was not only impressive but quite touching, as Draco was pretty positive Harry had never written stories and shown them to anyone else. He would have heard about something like that. Harry would have _told_ him something about that during one of their conversations.

Draco fell asleep picturing two little boys—not necessarily identical versions of himself and Potter as children but close in coloring and such—sitting in front yard of lush green grass, having chugged down an entire pitcher of lemonade, and then walking to a pond hidden away in a forest around Waco's property, and sitting on a rock. Right before he fell asleep, he very much thought of how strange it was that Waco got upset that his shoelaces got muddy, so Perry switched shoes with him, and when Waco got Perry's shoes dirty, too, they both laughed, and Waco no longer cared, because neither of them had something better than the other. Indeed, it was an interesting story, and on the last page, Harry had drawn some really amateur, but, once again, still somewhat impressive, images of four shoes and sprawled shoelaces on the ground. The shoelaces were all shadowed with dirt and little pin-pricks of particles of ink, too, and they were bewitched to make little journeys behind the words on the page, and at the bottom, they all lined up and one of the shoelaces pointed, like an arm, to the bottom right hand corner of the page, when he was done reading, as if it knew, for him to turn the page.

But, no, Draco had only peeked at the next story title page. He just wanted to bask in the joy he got out of the little story.

When he next awoke, Dickie was tucked into the bed next to him, and he was sound asleep. The only reason that Draco had awoken was because he hard heard the sound of the door opening. His eyes adjusted to the still candle-lit room, and he took in Cornwell, standing there. He flinched, as if he had not meant to wake Draco, and was just there to check up on Dickie. Amused that Cornwell had tucked Dickie in with him, probably for Draco's comfort, sometime earlier, he sat up on his elbows and closed the journal—er, anthology—over his chest, with his protective right hand. He held it to his chest, as he sat up, and Cornwell approached him.

Draco noticed that there were only about three candles still it.

Cornwell's expression was very somber, and he leaned over the bed a bit, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, it's... fine," Draco dismissed, his voice groggy and gruff, though he felt surprisingly awake and alive. "Any news?"

Cornwell sat down on the side of the bed, with Dickie in between them, "No, Draco," he quietly returned, "I'm sorry."

"When I was a baby—or, at least Dickie's age—what was my favorite thing to say?"

Cornwell didn't appear to think this was an awkward question. He thought it over for a second, "You didn't say much at his age. He doesn't say much, either, except for his attempt at names. I remember the first word you loved to say, though, and you said it for about a year—twinkle, but you said it like, "Twweeeen-kul." He laughed, though, at Draco's expression. "I used to sing you Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star every night. It drove everyone mad, especially Lucius, and even a couple of the house-elves, who I noticed rolling their eyes when you started trying to sing it without me. You may or may not be influenced by many a-things having to do with stars and astronomy."

Draco half-smiled, relaxing back into the pillows next to Dickie, "Why didn't you name him something... _starry_?" He was tired, and it was Cornwell. He had nothing to prove.

"I tried. The closest I got was his middle name—but, I've thought about just calling him something else, but I think that might be a little... I don't know, he's a Dickie. He's just not a Dickinson."

"I agree—what's his middle name? You never told me."

Cornwell laughed, "Tycho."

Draco laughed, too, but said nothing. Instead, he looked right at Dickie, "Dickie Tycho Black." He paused, his eyes observing the sweet little face that was resting in resounding peace and comfort, snuggled in. He was such a little light for Draco—and, not just for Draco, but his family. Yeah. His family. This acknowledgment somewhat tugged at Draco's heart-strings, and the resulting sound was mildly delightful. He didn't hear anything out of tune, either, amongst the symphony of warm sound that had radiated through his chest. "It sounds a bit like a law firm."

"And, much less pretentious than Dickinson Tycho Black. I much prefer Dickie."

"Yeah," Draco chirped, agreeing, his eyes fixing onto Cornwell's, "he's suited as a Dickie. Dickinson..."

"I know exactly what you mean. I've thought about it, too."

"Cornwell?"

"Hmm?"

"She didn't want him?"

Cornwell's eyes left Dickie's sleeping form. He had been rubbing his small foot, from over the cover, so lightly, and Draco had watched. He hadn't ever really cornered Cornwell on the happenings of why his marriage fell apart. He couldn't imagine what kind of woman wouldn't want such a sweet little boy like Dickie. He was a gem, he truly was. He was so sweet, sensitive, and just a completely loving little specimen. He was so innocent and amazing, and rarely ever cranky, shockingly, apparently. He was beautiful. So beautiful. Granted, he did look like Cornwell, as Draco did, and when Draco looked at Dickie, he didn't see anything on him that he immediately traced back to his mother, except, maybe a certain roundness. But, Cornwell's face was fairly rounded, even if it was intense and sharp. His face wasn't narrow, neither was Draco's. But, still, Draco wasn't sure if it was just because he was a baby that his face was rounded in the way it was. It just made him fifteen million times more adorable, especially when his cheeks scrunched.

Draco didn't feel intrusive, though he had only managed to ask Cornwell in a whisper, hesitant.

But, Cornwell reached out to Draco and patted his foot, too, with somewhat of a sad smile, "Draco, I don't want to talk about it in front of him. I know he's asleep, and even if he wasn't, he probably wouldn't ever comprehend, but I feel like, if it's said in front of him, it'll somehow weigh on his psyche as he grows."

Draco frowned, because he hadn't expected that as an answer, "I guess that answers my question."

"There are more complications, but yes. You have your answer."

Draco fell back down into the covers and attacked Dickie in a light, protective hug, smiling.

Dickie's eyelashes flickered open, sleepily, at the gentle prod of a hug that had overcome him, and he looked up at Draco.

Draco nuzzled his nose to Dickie's, "Personally, I'm very pleased you look like your daddy and not your mommy. That awful skin complexion would have clashed horribly with mine in family portraits. Yes, we don't want you to have to deal with blemishes and such. At least, we can only hope. Of course, we are magic, and there are potions to help with skin problems, but you won't need that. It's a blessing, you know. I will spare you details of watching your friends poke at their faces and make you feel as if you never want to eat, again," he sighed, his fingertip making a tiny circle against Dickie's small cheek, while he heard Cornwell sigh a laugh from a couple of feet away. He looked at Cornwell. "We do have superior skin. I'm not being dramatic. I'm speaking the truth."

"_Yes_," Cornwell imitated him, "we don't want him to deal with blemishes."

Draco grinned and looked back at Dickie, resting his cheek down on his pillow, "No, I'm only kidding. I was just looking at his skin. It really is beautiful, almost translucent. Did I have skin like he does?" He looked back at Cornwell, as Dickie began to wake up. He was so sleepy, so he didn't do much, and he was relaxed, so he only attempted to move his small arm, before it slowly migrated back to his chest, bent, and he stuck his thumb into his mouth and looked from Cornwell to Draco. "No, but _really_—I'm glad you look like your daddy. Your mother was—"

"Draco."

Draco rolled his eyes, but kept his attention on Dickie, "_Lovely_. She was lovely."

"Thank-you," Cornwell pointedly shot at him. "Do you want me to take him? I'm sorry for waking you up. He might fall back asleep with you."

"No, it's okay," Draco sighed, and pushed himself up on his left elbow, still looking down at Dickie, and peering into his sweet, sparkling, drowsy brown eyes, "I'm up for awhile. What time is it?"

"Four."

Draco looked over at his father, who was standing beside the bed, now, looking at them with a tilted head, "Four—that means someone is most definitely preparing to make breakfast. I'm there." He pushed himself up. "It's okay, I've got him."

Cornwell had a lot to do. The least Draco could do was take Dickie off of his hands, for awhile, so he wouldn't have that extra stress on him, too. Draco knew that it was appreciated, too, when he would sit with Dickie in a study and read to him or play with him for hours. It was something Draco loved to do, and Dickie was someone Draco loved wholeheartedly. Dickie was his little brother, and that was a bond Draco had never imagined feeling so intensely, at the core of his chest. He'd do anything for Dickie. He'd do anything for his family, for the people he loved and cared about. It was a small circle of people, but it had never been a large circle. More than ever, it was the most emotional, tightest set of emotions he had ever had for any one group of people. It was his mother, Lucius, Cornwell, Dickie, and Potter, and, for them, he felt the intensity of nothing that seemed plausible to compare his love for. And, outside of that tight group he called his family—because, they were his family—he had another family who he had grown to care about. The Order.

As Draco walked Dickie toward the bedroom door, a couple of minutes later, following Cornwell, he couldn't help but look back over at the bed he had been sharing with one absent Potter and the journal that he knew was buried beneath the covers. He laughed to himself when he thought of how good it was going to feel to punch Potter in the face, or hex him senseless, the next time he saw him. He also thought of how good it was going to feel just to see Potter and have the ability to punch him in the face or hex him senseless. Not that he wanted to abuse Potter, of course. He was just beyond pissed that Potter had left him out of his plans, when it had always been a spoken AND unspoken acknowledgment that whatever Harry was going to do, Draco was going to be there for it. Yet, strangely, Draco could not tell himself he had been left out, because there was a very large part of his instinct that was telling him that Potter wouldn't have left such a door open if he had wanted it closed. Whatever Harry was doing, Draco was waiting to be alerted to what Harry was going to pull him in to doing. There was too much between them for Harry to not eventually feel it best, or once he got established, to reach out for Draco's assistance. His gut didn't lie, which was why, when he did next get to see Potter, he wasn't so sure he was going to have the opportunity _to_ punch him in the face.

No. That, too, would have to wait.

Whatever Potter had never planned... had been planned perfectly.


	17. Heart Shaped Cheek Clues

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** I know how hard I fail; what, this update only took me, oh, _two years_?! I'm so sorry. D'oh! It will be updated much more quickly for the next chapter! I can only hope some of you have not completely lost interest! Anyhow, this chapter mostly covers Draco, as, in the likely case you do not remember, after these two years, Harry last disappeared into thin air without warning and no one knows where he went. So, on with it!

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter 17

Heart-Shaped Cheek Clues

Draco sat down on the end of his four-poster bed, awkwardly taking in the room that surrounded him. It wasn't the same room that he had spent the previous six years of his academic life in. It had the same colors, the same walls, and the same furniture, but it felt different. No longer were many of his dorm-mates there to accompany him, and it wasn't, necessarily, that any of them had died in the war, but they were likely to be in hiding or out fighting the war and torturing innocent people. He had returned to Hogwarts not knowing what to expect, as had pretty much ever single other student who had shown up. There were even students he had never seen before, and then his father—well, Cornwell—had told him that Dumbledore had allowed some of the families and students from smaller, more independent magic schools to come stay at Hogwarts for protection. Draco hadn't questioned the specifics of how this was possible, but figured that, _hey_, it was Dumbledore, and he couldn't pretend to know all of the man's secrets anymore. When things needed to be done, Draco had come to find out, Dumbledore was the man to talk to, get advice from, or hear out. Plus, Draco had been far too busy to think about those kind of things, because he'd basically packed up all of the small belongings he had come into being fond of, at Grimmauld Place, his clothing, and his books the couple of days before the start of the term. He'd put it off until he'd absolutely needed to get it done, hoping every night that, when he woke, Harry would be back to be there to pack with him and make stupid little remarks that would piss Draco off anyway. He missed that, now, as much as he missed their former camaraderie.

Arriving at Hogwarts, this seventh year of his—theirs—everyone's—had been an entirely different experience than the last six years. He had arrived with his family before most anyone else had, because they had first set up the Order in a part of the castle that was nearly impossible to find with the naked eye or the everyday man's logic. It was set up in one of the many wings of the castle that no one had ever had time to venture in except for on Holiday. The area it was set up in had been blocked off to students for hundreds of years, Dumbledore had told him, conversationally, when Draco had been pulling out folders and folders of files from one of many boxes. After the Order had been established within the grounds, and the wards had gone up, he had returned home—well, to the only home he'd ever really known to have with Cornwell—and they had gathered the rest of their things and Floo-ed to the new residence where Cornwell would be staying, along with Draco's mother and Dickie. Draco had been offered the chance to stay there, but he had opted to leave them for his old dormitories, as most students, whose families had taken refuge in the castle, had as well. It had been a hard decision, though, when he had looked around the rooms, in awe. It wasn't like the rooms that other families had—a couple of small bedrooms, a main room, and a kitchen—but it was grand. It had hundred-foot-high ceilings, in some places, and fifty foot high fireplaces, stone ones, and there were turn-of-the-century paintings on the ceilings of angels and celestial bodies. The bedroom chambers had been just as nice—a smaller one for his mother, and then the huge one for Cornwell, one for Dickie, and two others—one for Draco, Cornwell had told him, when he wanted to come visit.

There was even an astounding and solidly packed two-story study, books from ceiling to floor, with elaborately engraved dark wooden shelves and beautiful, rich, dark—nearly black—maroon furniture with the same dark wooden frame. The place even had its own kitchens, which were quite old but not unusable. It had finally dawned on Draco, when he'd walked into a very long hallway, between Cornwell's chambers and everyone else's, that the reason Cornwell was granted access to the beautiful wing was because he was entitled to it. It had been Godric Gryffindor's personal wing, he'd discovered after some exploring, and Cornwell being his heir... was the sole proprietor of the rooms, of the whole wing and its unused, unexplored rooms. He hadn't had much of a chance to look after that initial tour, though, given to him by Cornwell, because he'd had to return, with his belongings, to the castle, which Cornwell had helped him with. It had felt good, lugging his trunk across the grounds to get from their side of the castle to the main part, because Cornwell had been with him, escorting him. He'd had one of Draco's bags around his shoulders, carrying a suitcase of books in one hand and a bag of Draco's little belongings in the other. He had smiled, and Draco had smiled. He had laughed, and Draco had laughed. He had joked, and Draco had beamed. He still didn't know if Cornwell could ever be able to understand what that moment had been like for him, or even if Cornwell knew how much it had meant to Draco, but Draco hoped to be able to tell him one day.

He had even helped Draco take his things up to his dorm, which had been extremely awkward, because rumors about Draco had been swirling all summer, and he had pretty much disappeared off of the face of the earth, so suddenly he was walking into the Slytherin common room in his trousers and light yellow Nirvana T-shirt with a man that looked nearly exactly like him right with him, wearing red flannel, with well-kept hair and a beard, a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He was the son of the missing Minister of Magic, and Draco couldn't imagine what they thought of him, or his life, or all of the questions they had for him or about him. He didn't really care, either. He knew he could have just stayed back with his family, and it would have been so much easier for him to live there and only attend classes. However, he knew familiarity was essential to his sanity, and being that he no longer lived at the home he had grown up in, his father—Lucius—had disappeared, again, when even the Order didn't know where he was, he had a new sibling, was back to being able to spend time with his papa—er, father—Cornwell—God, that was confusing—and his best friend was a missing Harry Potter, any normal thing that would give him a bit of stability was much needed. The Slytherin dungeons brought this comfort.

As soon as he had stepped in, he had breathed in a huge sigh of relief, especially in his dorm. The smell of the cold and the limestone had brought such a sense of home to him, and when he had walked to his bed, in his dorm, the carved "Draco Malfoy" on the inner part of the bottom left post had still been there, just waiting for him. He had made up his bed, with Cornwell's help, at once.

Draco watched as his father unfolded his cuff and maneuvered the material so he could rub it over Draco's window. He kind of smiled, silently, watching as Cornwell tried to get the grime off of the window. Draco had tried many times, but he had never been successful. He had even tried to clean it from the outside, but it always remained foggy and slightly dirty. He had even tried to use spells to clean it up, but nothing had ever worked. Watching his father try to clean it, then, amused him.

"It's no use," he finally said, and he pushed himself up off of his high bed and landed fully on his feet. He walked around the bed to get to his desk, which was set back behind his dark green curtains, under his window, where his father had already placed a snow globe of Draco's. He took a seat on the side of the bed, again, and rested his heels on the wooden frame of the bed, his hands folded between his knees, slightly bent as he tried to ignore the prying eyes of curious strangers he'd never met. He had new roommates, the ones from other schools, being that most of the room left in the towers were beds left in the Slytherin house.

"No?" Cornwell asked, with a frown, as he withdrew his sleeve, looking at it very closely to see if he had actually gotten any dirt off, but Draco really doubted it. Cornwell seemed perplexed when his eyes next met Draco's. "Has it always been like this?"

"It gets a little worse every year." He pointed upwards with his index fingertip, then let it fall back between his legs. "It's because one of the Charms classrooms is above us, and when they use fire or the stove, the exhaust pipe lets out right above my window," Draco offered with what he had learned only the year before when he'd actually realized one of the Charms classrooms had pipes that lead over the dungeons. It was unfortunate, really, but he had never REALLY complained, because it was only his dorm that had windows that were even high enough to see anything other than the stone outside of them, and that was hardly a reason to complain, even if the windows were a little mucky. Plus, he had always had the same dorm, because the Slytherin sleeping situations were different from those of the other houses, and the thought of being moved elsewhere distressed him. "I've tried to clean it from the outside, but it's like the color is ingrained in the glass."

"That's unfortunate," the man said, then, thoughtfully, and he reached out and stroked his long fingertips down the window, leaving streak marks Draco knew he'd clean right after Cornwell left, because he couldn't fucking stand streak marks. "Oh—right, then. Sorry about that, let me...." Cornwell put his sleeve back to the window and rubbed in a circular motion, to rid of the streaks, so Draco's attention and affections immediately perked up, and he tilted his head, almost excitedly. "I know how you hate those."

Draco was either too emotional or too prideful to say anything, so he just smiled when Cornwell looked back at him. He looked over and saw that no one else's parents stayed to talk, and Cornwell seemed to notice, too. He started to move away from Draco's desk, but not before he placed down a wrapped parcel, producing it from one of Draco's bags. The five year old in Draco got the best of him, because he sat up even more straight, trying to maintain an air of dignity, "What's that!" He'd failed.

Cornwell smiled as he stopped in front of Draco, "A few things I thought you might like to make up for some of the things you couldn't bring this year." It was true that most of the things Draco brought to school, usually, had been destroyed. The Malfoy Manor had been demolished, and he hated to even imagine what had become of his own study and his important gadgets and gizmos. It broke his heart to think about, so he tried to not think about it at all. He was really excited about what Cornwell might have packed for him, though, based on the gesture alone—new things, old things? He didn't know, but he would soon find out. He smiled, in response, still silent and still awkwardly confused as to the surroundings and the situations.

Cornwell knew.

Draco finally looked down at his wrists, between his legs, "Thanks," he quietly offered.

Cornwell leaned in, with his hand on Draco's elbow, and kissed his temple softly, "Remember what I said," he said, then, and pulled back, leaving Draco's heart aching, because he kind of wanted to latch onto Cornwell and tell him not to go far. Draco had been with him, or at least seen him, every single day over the last handful of months. To be away from Cornwell, again, hurt, even if it was just for a few days and he was not too far away. He was used to his family, used to the dynamic he'd never had before, of an openly affectionate father and a talkative mother who never had to keep her place, anymore, and a little brother who blurted out random gibberish when he was both happy with Draco and pissed at him. He already missed that, and it hurt. "I want to see you two times a week. If I don't see you at least twice a week, you're in enormous trouble."

Draco kind of laughed, then, eyes finally coming up to his father's warm brown ones, "What kind of trouble _is_ enormous trouble, exactly?"

"It entails… well—I—well, you just think about it," replied the roughly affectionate laugh, after a pause of thoughtful consideration, and then Draco got another soft kiss on the forehead. "Would you walk me out?"

Draco obliged, closing his curtains off around his bed and desk, with his belongings on them, and casting a quick spell around them, because he was paranoid about anyone getting in his things. He led his father out of the dorm and down the cold gray stone stairs, taking his time. He felt at home, now, being back in the Slytherin cove his body felt accustomed to. He did spend nine months of the year in it, in the castle, after all. He felt a real sense of seniority, but it was almost phony to him; he had changed so much. Even with the familiar faces that surrounded him, he still felt like he was in the wrong place, even though he knew he wasn't. He would probably be treated like royalty, as it was his last year, and he was Draco Malfoy, but even that was a lie to a certain extent. He didn't know how he was going to function, really. He was going to have to figure it out, and he reminded himself so, suddenly, as he came to a direct and abrupt halt, right there on the stairs, when another body almost collided with his.

Draco stiffened and somehow felt the urge to grab his wand from his pocket.

"Draco!"

_Blaise_? Draco perked up, at once, "What are you _doing _here? Dumbledore has your number."

"Apparently he has yours. The better question is what you're doing here; no one has heard about your whereabouts for months!"

Draco couldn't believe what he was hearing, even though he did realize that Blaise's reaction to seeing him had come from a childhood place, knowing that his friend was still alive. It was true that word of Draco Malfoy had been kept very quiet from anyone and everyone, and whenever it had been questioned in the papers, the Order spies who worked for the Daily Prophet saw to it that articles featuring his disappearance somehow didn't make it to the printers the hour before they went to press. Seeing Blaise felt good for the child in Draco, too, but he found himself infuriated that Dumbledore had let Blaise return. He was an outright Death Eater, and there were half-bloods and mudbloods running around everywhere, and not just them but their entire_ families_ were there. Granted, Dumbledore seemed to have a soft spot for taking in apparent death-eaters, but this seemed like a more risky stretch from where Draco stood, knowing Blaise had helped kill one of Draco's childhood best friend's brothers. It was Blaise, still, but... but it was different. Everything was different, including him.

Draco shook his head, then, and turned and looked back at Cornwell, as if asking him and searching him for what he could even say, who he noticed Blaise suddenly take notice of, with a double-take and confused widened eyes. Before he could even let Blaise ask, Draco said, "This is my father, Blaise." Blaise was the only person Draco had ever DARED to tell about Cornwell, but Blaise had never seen a picture or heard his proper name, as Draco had never trusted anyone with that information, had never trusted anyone to not throw it back in his face somehow. For some reason it felt good for Draco to tell Blaise that THIS was his father, the one who standing there, silently, behind him. When Draco turned to look back at him, he saw that Cornwell was staring straight through Blaise, and maybe that was what had caught Blaise off-guard or startled him, too, because the dark eyes were practically burning through him, though not in an intimidating way, just perhaps a protective, inquisitive way. Draco could have grimaced, but he held back in favor of introducing them properly. "This is Blaise Zabini."

"Blaise Zabini," Cornwell seemed to suddenly remember, but his tone did not match the intense stare he was still directing at the young man opposite Draco. Instead, his tone was light, almost airy and friendly, but hardly disinterested. "You're Draco's best friend, I remember."

"Yes," Draco told him, and then fixed his eyes on Blaise, intensely, too, "once upon a time."

"The one that killed the Cliffdale boy," Cornwell said, conversationally. "Were you well-rewarded for that, son?"

Even Draco looked down, flushing, at Cornwell's question to Blaise, right there in the middle of the stairwell.

"I... I couldn't... tell you the nightmares..." Blaise barely managed to say, eyes so lowered that Draco was sure he was searching the steps for their molecular structure. "You couldn't imagine... you... couldn't... wouldn't _want_ to. I'm only he here because Dumbledore found me and convinced me not to off myself. I'm not here for anymore trouble. I'm barely here at all." He paused. "I'm barely anywhere," he whispered, mostly to himself, like he was returning to deep thoughts that the less-than-exciting reunion with Draco had interrupted.

Cornwell wrapped his hand around Draco's shoulder and gave him a small push to go ahead and keep walking, so Draco did, slowly, pointedly walking around Blaise, who was, notably, by himself, with no family to accompany him, as, last Draco had heard, his mother and siblings had gone into hiding to get away from Blaise and his father. He almost felt bad for Blaise, but he just reminded himself that Blaise had killed someone for no good reason, and that set Draco's mind straight. He turned, then, on the stairs, still with Cornwell's hand wrapped around his shoulder, almost supportively, and watched as his father leaned in to Blaise's face and said, quietly, "It's not safe here for you. Keep your eyes open."

"I know, sir."

"You'll be dead by morning if you're not careful. Be alert, keep your wand close."

"I know."

"Everyone here knows."

"The dorms are locked closed at night, at least."

Cornwell tilted his head, then, at Blaise, "That won't protect you from your roommates," he whispered.

Blaise blinked. He looked at Draco, and Draco turned his head and looked away.

"Draco?" Blaise asked, quietly.

Draco finally looked back at him, "No one will take mercy on you," he admitted, but he didn't want to, not really. "I would not take mercy on you."

"You'd wish me dead just like I wish myself dead, then."

A small explosion erupted right from the center of Draco's chest, and then it burned right up his throat, "No, what _I_ _wish_ is thatyou'd never done what you did, but that's just wishful _thinking_, Blaise. You chose your side, and I chose mine!"

"Do you think I'd come back here if I wanted to be on that side! Do you think I'd risk this!"

"Sometimes redemption attempts come too late, don't they?" Draco bit, infuriated, and he knew he was the last person who could even attempt to say such a thing to Blaise. It was almost irrational in how angry he was with Blaise, but part of him needed to get it off of his chest, because he quite knew Blaise being there was brave, and of course Draco would try to protect him. They were of the Slytherin breed, and that was what they did. He shifted his weight onto his left foot and crossed his arms over his chest, looking straight into Blaise's face. "In either case, you turned your back on me—on us—on our friendship in general, on all of us who agreed we wouldn't turn into our fathers. You damn near turned your back on yourself, Blaise. I don't know the Blaise that you've been—or… or who could… just… so you're going to have to explain that to me at some point."

"I'm sure you know, Draco, that it's really_ never _too late for redemption," Cornwell said, before Blaise could respond to Draco, and then Cornwell just looked from Draco to Blaise, after giving Draco a rather hardened, disappointed look that Draco understood to mean he was being unfair and he needed to try to see Blaise's point-of-view. It was amusing that Draco was supposed to feel sympathy for Blaise, in Cornwell's mind, but Cornwell was no Dumbledore, which became more and more clear by the day. "You're either very brave and openly suicidal to return here, or you're all alone and this is the only place you're safe from your father and crew. I hope Dumbledore would know, because he did allow you to come back. It's not up for discussion from us. In any case, you're safe, now, to an extent, and I think that means a lot to Draco." He stepped down on the step behind Draco's, thoughtfully, and then below it. Draco watched the expressions on his face change a few times, into ones he hadn't yet fully understood meaning of. That didn't seem to matter, though, because Cornwell almost smiled at him. "I hope to see you again, Blaise, without suspicions." His eyes moved to Draco. "Why don't you stay and talk? I trust you'd never let a friend suffer." Blackmail—emotional, the worst kind... but the best kind. Cornwell knew there was no way Draco could hate Blaise. They all knew Draco was still just beyond angry at Blaise, but it ended at that. "I'll see you later. Come for dinner, if you get the chance."

Draco gave a nod, slightly confused on what to do. "Dinner," he quietly agreed. "Uh, and—and… be careful."

"You be careful, Draco," Cornwell softly said and squeezed his arm. He glanced at Blaise. "Don't touch my son unless you first ask me to."

Draco refrained from letting his eyebrows shoot up with a mix of surprise and joy.

"I don't trust myself to touch anyone."

"Good boy."

"Papa?" Draco asked of him, remembering something off of the top of his head; he had finally started to call Cornwell his _Papa_ again, as, well, Lucius was still Draco's father and Draco loved him dearly. The first time had been sort of strange, because Draco had just strolled into The Order's kitchen, with a newspaper in hand, the first one he'd dared to read in months, outraged at the headlines, and he'd demanded, "Papa!" in a way that said, "come look at this and make me feel better." Cornwell had taken the newspaper from him, once he'd gotten over the shock of being barked at as, "Papa," again, because that was the way Draco had always addressed him, growing up, when he had been upset about something. It was just sort of habit, Draco supposed; a habit that had come back full force. After having seen the way Cornwell reacted to being called Papa, Draco had decided that maybe it wasn't so bad to let himself be attached to Cornwell, openly, and begin to at least TRY to make the effort to call him Papa, as he was Draco's father. The issues he had once had, the bitterness, or even the grudge, against Cornwell, had been put to a restful death after a peaceful burial.

After that first day, he had called Cornwell "Papa" at least ten times a day, because it always just blurted out of his mouth. It made him feel good to say it, even though he usually said it very quietly and with utmost love and devotion. He found himself massively attached to Cornwell, because Cornwell had become the father to him, now, that he had never been able to full be, growing up. Sure, he had used to give Draco kisses on the top of his head and tell him that he loved him—albeit rarely, always when he was sure Lucius and Narcissa wouldn't hear—but it was different when Draco could sit with him, in a study, and pull his ankles up onto the couch, wrap his arms around his knees and discuss... what he wanted to be when the war was over, when Voldemort was gone, and how Cornwell listened, so intently, and humored him. To Cornwell, Voldemort was just an obstacle that was not all-encompassing, or at least that was how he appeared to see him, so he could talk about those things with Draco, about options when school was over, but Lucius had never been like that, because Voldemort had been his way of life, and his "utopia" had been something Lucius had dreamed about. What he wanted for Draco's future was to be an heir, a well-read man, with a wife and children, to take up the family cause. Well, once upon a time he had wanted that, but Draco wasn't sure, now. He just knew that the more Lucius saw him with Cornwell, and laughing, or not laughing and arguing, instead, the more attentive his eye-contact had become when he'd talk to Draco. That wasn't much for some people, but it was a lot of Lucius Malfoy. The closer he got to Cornwell, the closer he got to Lucius.

"Tell Dickie I love him." Dickie had been asleep when they had left to walk Draco up to school, so he hadn't been able to say a proper goodbye. Not that it would really matter, because Draco would see them at dinner, if all worked out, but it was just the principle. He didn't care if Blaise saw him being vulnerable, and neither did Blaise, it seemed.

"Of course," Cornwell softly murmured up at him, eyes glistening happily in a way that erased his usually intense eye-contact and brooding, hooded eyelids behind his dark eyelashes. It was nice to see him look like that without a joke having been told. "Dinner?"

"Dinner," Draco said, even again, like a promise.

When Cornwell left, and they were alone, both stiff and tense, Blaise quietly said, "I can't believe he actually left you alone with me. I could hex you dead right here."

Draco smirked, then, a smirk he hadn't felt in ages, and he turned fully into Blaise's direction and tilted his head. He found himself bragging instead of threatening, and that was when he knew that the world was still the same in some ways, "_You_ wouldn't believe all of the spells I now know that could kill you dead before you could so much as even begin to blink an eyelash."

"Oh, _really_?"

"Yes," Draco quietly said, trying not to laugh, "_oh really_." And then he kind of smiled. "Tell me everything you know, and maybe I'll reciprocate—if you're lucky... and if you give me one of those chocolate frogs!"

Blaise looked like he was going to cry, as he lunged forward and latched himself onto Draco in a hug they had never even attempted to share before. He was pale, very skinny, and Draco could feel his ribs through his sweater, which scared him for so many reasons he didn't even know where to begin. He had known Blaise all of his life, and he had known that look in his eyes, of utmost honesty and distress, and that had done all of the convincing Draco had needed. The hug that Blaise needed from him said the rest of all that needed to be said, because it was like he had never been hugged in his life. He had, of course, but was desperate for someone to give him love and familiarity. Draco needed the same things, but not like he had once upon a time. Draco gave the hug back, once it lingered for longer than five seconds, and he clutched Blaise back for Blaise's sake, when he understood what was needed of him. He clutched Blaise like a brother home from war, because he was.

"Can we get something to eat, first? I haven't had anything to eat in days," cried the voice in his shoulder, and Draco was just amazed, wide-eyed. All he felt himself do was nod, and he sort of rubbed Blaise's back with a hand, like Harry had done to him, to make him feel better, and found that Blaise seemed to melt into it, like it was the most loving of hand-rubs. This just made Draco's heart hurt for them both. "I'd never hurt you, Draco, or anyone you love. I'm so sorry."

"I know."

"I should have listened to you—they're awful—I ran away—they have Cliffdale, did you know? He—he—You-Know-Who threw this—_bash_, and it was awful. He made him kill—Judas, I mean. He didn't even blink. He's evil, Draco—or—I can't tell—we were roommates, sort of—you can't trust him. And they were going to... it's... they torture until you can't hold on any longer, and then they kill you just when you think you have nothing to lose, even if you've been so shamed and degraded and beaten and—and _taken_... they tried, but he helped me—Cliffdale, I mean. He's good—a good man—but so... so _evil_, Draco."

Draco felt sick for what Blaise had seen, for the pain their fathers had inflicted on people. He needed to be sitting down when Blaise told him about Harry's current well-being, about anything, really, having to do with Harry or "Judas," but from what he heard of it, he could not force himself to believe. Had Harry really killed someone in cold blood? Then again, Harry wouldn't have left, suddenly, to join up with Voldemort, if he hadn't been prepared to partake in actions that would prove his loyalty and service to Voldemort. With a bitten lip, Draco noticed Blaise was waiting for him to say something—anything, so he said, softly, "Let's get you settled," and took Blaise's upper arms in his hands, searching for his eyes, which he got in return. They were so bloodshot and miserable, so guilty and sad. "You're safe now."

"I'd like to believe that."

"I'll keep you safe."

"Neither of us are safe, not even here. Not _anywhere_. They can get me anywhere, even when I sleep."

"I know," Draco assured, so quietly, gazing deeply at Blaise, so he _knew_ Draco understood. "_I know_."

When Blaise pulled away, Draco leaned down and took two of the bags off of his arms and the one hanging from his elbows, because Blaise looked exhausted, worn, and like one more step with all of his bags would make him tumble over backwards and fall down the stairs. He pulled the bags up over his shoulders and found himself giving Blaise a hand on his shoulder, in support, and saying, so very quietly, "We'll make your bed, put your things in, and then… we'll head down to the kitchens, yeah?" And though Blaise simply nodded, Draco could still see the remnants of his tears sliding down his cheeks, his shoulders slouched heavily, his face dirtier than Draco had first realized. Draco couldn't imagine what Blaise had been through, but all he knew was that he suddenly just wanted to make sure Blaise could take a nap. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, and Draco was nervous for him. He watched Blaise start up the steps, and then he followed him right up, both taking their time.

Blaise turned his cheek over his left shoulder, slightly, and when he did, Draco gave him a warm smile, "Thanks."

Without saying a word in return, because he knew Blaise was sure of Draco's friendship without a word needing to be returned, because he was helping him with his things back up the stairs, they turned into their dorm-room, finally, and walked Blaise's things to the bed directly to the right of Draco's. It was the only bed that had yet to be made, and with Blaise's arrival, the room was full of its occupants—three strangers and two friends who had yet to meet.

Draco set Blaise's things down at the foot of his bed, noticing that Blaise didn't have his trunk with him. He didn't think he had to ask where it was, though, because he saw the way Blaise eyed all of their trunks and then his bags. It must have still been with his family when they had gone into hiding. Maybe they had taken it with them, or maybe left it back at the Zabini home, but either way... there was no way Blaise could go back and return to find it if he was in hiding from his father and the Death Eaters. They would have spells set, and would, most likely, show up as soon as Blaise stepped a foot in the house or on the estate, Draco was sure. He sort of looked at the trunks, too, and when he did, he caught a pair of blue eyes from on of the other beds, and he knew he could not just turn away and say nothing, so he sucked up his nerves and worries—after all, these would be his dorm-mates, and from what he could see so far, no one had really been introduced and everyone was quietly doing their own thing with putting away their belongings, and one had even disappeared, already, behind his curtains, but Draco could see he was sitting at his desk and staring out the window. Yes, this was nothing like the other beginning terms. These were very different times, and they were all very subdued and nervous.

Draco let a light smile come to his lips, and he sort of took a step from Blaise's things and walked to the center space heater in the middle of the room. He put his hands on the wooden barrier, "Hi," he said, to the boy, who smiled back at him without wary apprehension, "I'm Draco." He looked over his shoulder at Blaise, who was looking at the two other boys, too. Draco looked from the blue eyes and blonde hair to the brown eyes and blonde hair, then back to Blaise, and from Blaise back to the other two, "and this is Blaise."

"Cory," said the blonde with blue eyes, and he climbed off of his bed, and, in the process, the kid behind the curtain came forward, too, after hearing the start of the conversation. They almost knocked into each other, but then awkwardly laughed and stepped out towards Draco and Blaise. "This is Will."

"I'm Eli," said the other stranger, and they all sort of met around the space heater.

Draco nodded at their names, and they all began to shake hands. It was kind of nice, the unspoken bond they all had. Draco worried what would happen if they found out that their two roommates had been questionable for most of their lives at Hogwarts, and that Blaise was a Death Eater with the dark-mark and all. He supposed that they would cross that bridge when they got to it, though, and that it would probably just be better to concentrate on developing trust. He had never really trusted anyone, not even fully Blaise, up until that summer, but he was glad he had learned his lessons from Harry, from Cornwell, from the Order, because trust was really important, now. They all needed to trust each other, and it was obvious by their handshakes that they all knew it. They were dorm-mates and dorm-mates stuck together.

Will was the first to start conversation, leaning against the barrier, "You two are Hogwarts students, right?" He asked, of Draco and Blaise.

"Yeah, how could you tell?" Blaise asked, most suspiciously, and Draco elbowed him, openly, for them all to see. Blaise growled at Draco, who smirked, before looking back at the three others."Sorry, natural reaction—uh—rough summer, I guess."

"That's an understatement," laughed Eli, quietly, shyly perking up. Cory agreed with a nod.

"It's just that your names are already engraved outside on the door, so you must have been here for awhile," Will offered.

"Oh," Blaise laughed, sheepishly, and Draco laughed, too, amused by his playful shyness. "That would explain it, then—how about you, where are you all from?"

"We went to Eastwyck," said Cory, of he and Will, who obviously already knew each other. "Eli?"

"Carmichael Academy," said the brown-eyed boy, still very softly. "Lost most of my mates."

Draco frowned, sadly, and sat on the foot of his bed, "Sorry," he was the first to offer, quietly, "that's terrible."

"Yeah, we're real sorry," Will added, with a really genuine frown. "That must be rough—we lost some mates, too. July, big attack on a witch's seventh year congratulatory party—bodies everywhere."

"Haven't really stopped having nightmares about it, honestly," Cory countered, then looked at Draco. "There wasn't much left of Eastwyck, got destroyed when You-Know-Who found out some muggle-born families were taking refuge there. Same of Carmichael, last I heard," and he looked at Eli for agreement, and he got a very solemn nod of assurance. "I'd always heard about Hogwarts. Thank Merlin Dumbledore's around to make sure this place has stayed up."

"Pretty amazing, really," Will offered, too, and looked at Eli. "I think both of our families are staying here, too, right? I thought I saw you and your mum checking out your schedule earlier?"

Eli nodded, and he finally stood up, "My house was destroyed—my family was involved back in the Order of the Phoenix days—my uncles were Death Eaters. My dad stayed away from it, but once one of your family members is in it, it infects all of your family. Mum, dad, my sister and brother are here, now, though—lost a brother in August fighting against a wicked lady."

"That's awful," "Oh, mate, I'm sorry," were all quietly murmured from the four others, softly.

Eli shrugged, "Mum says there's nothing we can do about it but keep the rest of us safe, yeah?"

"Same here," said Cory. "Too many of our lot are mixed in with the wrong crowd. Dad packed us up, we left most everything behind, and then I wake up on some train on the way here this morning—said all he's got left are his sons, and so here we are—me and my littlest, he's a first year," he elaborated. "Your siblings here?"

Draco almost said no, but then he remembered Dickie, and he kind of smiled when he had the opportunity to nod. It was the first time in his life that he got to answer a question about siblings. He could just picture Dickie, now, as fresh as any picture in his mind, bright-eyed and bright-headed and full of love and made of pink cheeks and white cotton t-shirts and pants. He was a summer being, Draco thought to himself, "My little brother, but he's too young to start schooling."

"Same," said Eli, "my little sister is only two, and my brother is nine—what about you, Blaise?"

Blaise only sighed and tears started leaking out of his eyes.

Grimacing, Draco bit into his bottom lip, because he knew why Blaise was crying. He did have a little brother who was supposed to attend, that year, but he did not know of his whereabouts or if he was even alive, Draco was sure. He looked, awkwardly, back at the three other boys who seemed perplexed but hardly vexing. There were no rude stares at Blaise, just questioning concern. Eli was the first to look at Draco for some sort of reassurance that Blaise was okay, and then Draco eyed Blaise, too, and explained, "Blaise hasn't heard from his mother and brothers in months."

"Oh," Will replied, and it seemed like a deep burn to him, "I'm sorry, Blaise. No word or anything?"

"No," Blaise sniffed, and he didn't seem ashamed. "Sorry, I just—I'm tired, and... hungry, and... haven't been to sleep in... in I don't even know how long... and there's so much to work out—God, Draco, I don't even have my bedding," he realized, all in one breath, turning to look at his bed. His shoulders slouched, and then he covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. "It's so weird being back here, and I shouldn't be—I really shouldn't be—and I just want to sleep, and I don't even know if I can go get bedding—I can't—Draco, I can't go down to Hogsmeade and get anything and..."

Draco hopped off from the end of his bed. He walked to Blaise, took his shoulders, managing what he felt to be a soft smile, and led him over to his own made bed, cutting him off, "Why don't you lay down and get some sleep? We'll go get something to eat and see what's going on with everything." He looked over at the other three, hopeful that they wouldn't be opposed to the idea, and they seemed anything but. He even saw Will rub his stomach as if to signal that he was starving. Good. He could not help but feel a real sense of brotherly understanding between all of them, already. They were not obnoxious or rude or crude. Eli was very shy, down to the blonde hair in his face, and he seemed very sweet, even in the way he spoke. Cory seemed studious and very laid-back, and Will seemed to be really empathetic and caring. It wasn't like it used to be, with all of their personalities. Once upon a time, Draco had been a jackass who never would have introduced himself as just, "Draco," because he would have been, "Draco Malfoy," always talking about stupid things and scowling at everyone, Blaise would have been constantly talking about who he'd banged all summer, Crabbe would pick fights with everyone for everything, Goyle would ignore them all until he needed something, and Eric Wilson would antagonize everyone for no reason—it had been fun, then, but this was different. More was needed out of them as people, more was needed out of them for each other's sakes, even if they'd just barely been introduced.

Blaise turned around, sighing, "No—no. I just—it's okay, I can make it down to dinner."

"You're tired," Draco said, gently, then, and he latched his eyes, without apprehension, right into Blaise's. Blaise seemed surprised, for merely a second, but then it washed away into relief again. "Lay down in my bed, it's okay. I'll try to find you some extra bedding. Dumbledore has all of those shop keepers open in the back part of the castle, remember? Where we went that time to play Quidditch on Holiday break? I'm sure someone is selling bedding there, okay? _No big deal_. We'll get everything taken care of, but you already have too much going on in there," and he tapped Blaise's temple with his fingertip. "Lay down, _rest_."

"Okay," was Blaise's only argument, and he climbed onto Draco's bed. "Draco."

"Yeah?" Draco asked, with a laugh, softly, amused and kind of adoring how pathetic Blaise was right at that moment. He wouldn't say so, though. He understood, on so many levels, how rough the summer had been for Blaise, not at all arguably better than Draco's summer, and Draco recognized that for one of his oldest friends.

Blaise fell right down into Draco's pillows, yawning, already, into his fist, "Bring me some pudding, if you can."

"Oy, he's awfully demanding," Will laughed. "Give him an inch, and he'll take a mile."

Draco laughed, so hard, all of the sudden, and turned and looked at their laughing roommates. He looked back at Blaise, again, through happily squinted eyes, to see that Blaise was laughing, too. It was amazing that Will had just picked up on something that Draco had been teasing Blaise about for years. "I think he just pegged you within five minutes of knowing you." And then he gave Blaise a playful squeeze on the forearm, because he knew of Blaise's love for pudding, and it was tradition that they indulged on the first day of the term, and they had started every year off that way for the last six years, so this seventh one... well, Draco wanted to find some way to maintain a little more familiarity for the both of them. "I'll see what I can find."

A lot of things had not changed at all, but there were some parts of the castle, on the walk up to the Great Hall, that were different. The school hadn't really been touched in battle, as Dumbledore, and many other men, Draco had assumed, had made sure that wasn't possible, but it seemed really dull. The huge windows seemed to let in less sunlight, even if it was very bright outside, and the dark stones seemed even darker. Dirtier, somehow, even if they were not. In a way, returning to Hogwarts without Harry—Judas—whoever he was—was a lot easier, and he wondered how things were going to turn out, because, from where he stood, on the bottom step of the main staircase outside of the Great Hall, he could barely see Harry returning at all, not as Judas, and not as himself. He figured maybe it was bad to think that way, thought it was a bad idea to not envision things happening in the best possible way, in the best possible light. A nagging part of him, that he tried to usually ignore in the back of his mind, wasn't so convinced, however.

Walking into the Great Hall was even more depressing, if that was possible, and it was. It was almost as if all of the new faces far outnumbered all of the old ones, and that opened his eyes, further, to the reality of where he was, with whom, and why. He shook his head to himself, trailing his new roommates, even though they seemed to have no idea where they were going. He slid his hands into his pockets and tucked his chin down, then, as he cleared his throat for them to follow him, so they did. He kept his head down, because he knew he would gain attention at once, though by no intention of his own, as it might once have been. For a second, he thought he finally understood what it was like to have a bit of Harry Potter's life, because his name was on the whispered lips of kids as he passed, leading his three, quiet, reserved, completely awed Slytherins toward the Slytherin table. He motioned them to go ahead and sit, and so they did, looking at him for more guidance, somehow, because, after all, they knew no one, and there were others at the table who seemed just as lost.

"Draco! Oh, Draco."

Draco turned his head, and then he rushed forward, before he could even help it, and returned the hug being offered out to him by Pansy Parkinson. They hadn't spoken at all since the middle of the last year, when Draco had renounced the Old Ways to her. It hadn't been her decision, she'd said, to stop speaking with him, but rather it had been her father's wishes, because he hadn't wanted her getting tied up in the stipulations that the Dark Lord was going to be considering where Draco was concerned, as, Draco had come to find out, it had never been a secret to the Dark Lord that Draco's resistance was solid and he wouldn't waver, which Draco thought of as brave. The only thing he had ever really taken a strong, admirable stand against was the one thing that, in many former friends' eyes, he should not have.

Draco felt his wrists clench into hard fists, as he held her close, holding tightly but not too tightly. They had never shared a hug like this, but it suddenly felt like the most natural thing in the world. He had spent nights worrying about her state-of-being, worrying about her family, about how she was and if she had stayed out of trouble. To see her at Hogwarts, right then, was perhaps the biggest surprise he figured he'd be getting that day, maybe that week or that month. He never would have thought she would have come to find refuge at Hogwarts, and he wondered if she had run away, because, that he knew, her mother was no angel and was in ranks with the Dark Lord as much as her father was.

Thinking of this, Draco gently let go, but his hands slid down from her elbows, until his hands found hers, and he just squeezed them with no intention of letting go too soon, staring at her and looking her over like he had done to Blaise, but with friendly, worried eyes versus defensive, bitter eyes. She looked ill, very thin, and her cheeks were sunken in. She had always had an olive tone to her skin, but now it was almost as if she had dirt smears as cheekbones and dark purple warpaint under her eyes, but no... she was just tired. He sighed, overwhelmed, and then said the only thing that would come out of his mouth, "I'm so glad to see you."

Her eyes were filled with tears, and she made him let go of her hands, so she could hug him again. He hugged her back, but his hands stayed open and relaxed against the soft cloth of her black robes. They were not new ones, as she usually wore on the first day, but ones that looked as if they had seen rough days, and he thought they smelled a little like dirt and limestone instead of the expensive perfume she'd once worn. He let her release him when she was ready, and when she did, he took her left hand in his own hands, like maybe a worried brother would do, looking her over. Draco almost felt guilty for the fact that he'd been having pretty wonderful sleep for the past week, but prior to that week, he'd barely slept a blink, in truth, "You look about as well-rested as Blaise."

"I've not had sleep in days," she tried to excuse her tears, her free hand's fingertips waving around her eyes. After a moment, she dropped her hand and stared strangely at him, with chapped and parted dry lips. "Did you say Blaise? Blaise? He's here?" She asked, and she had the exact same look in her eyes as she had when they had first hugged and she had seen Draco, even if Blaise wasn't standing there in the flesh.

Draco nodded, helping her sit down, because, for some reason, she did seem very delicate. He was almost scared to let go of her, for fear she'd fall. She had always been a lean creature, with a long neck—she'd called it a sign of her aristocratic blood, but behind her back, the boys in his dorm had just figured she'd had a giraffe somewhere in her ancestry, and, one time, Blaise had produced a rather sick and detailed account of just how that neck got passed down to Pansy—but this was a very fragile Pansy, with unkempt hair, whereas it was usually always perfectly trimmed. She had split ends, and Draco found himself really despising that he had noticed, "He's up in our dorm, trying to get some rest—you need to eat."

"Draco," she said, and then she looked at him, again, as if for the first time, "where have you_ been_?"

Draco grimaced at the question, but he wasn't surprised by it, "In hiding, too."

"You look," she said, and then paused, once she looked him over, "fatter, but I guess by normal standards, you look fine."

Draco deadpanned at her, and she started to smile. He scowled, "Yet another thing that hasn't changed, Parkinson," he found himself then sort of chuckling with relief. First with Blaise's "take-advantage" attitude, and now Pansy's blatant obsessions about Draco's weight; it was rather uplifting on some level. "Your hair looks fucking awful. Jesus Christ, could you not find yourself an hour to get to a salon?" A joke, clearly, that she did not catch.

"Oh, yes, Draco," she said, "when Death Eater's are on the look-out for you, you naturally put that aside to go out and make sure your hair is looking posh enough for the kind of standards Draco Malfoy usually holds," she shot at him, in good humor, and they both immediately lifted up the goblets that appeared in front of them and began to drink, thoughtfully, almost comically, until they both put their goblets down and studied each other with slight interest. "You look healthy, albeit a little more like a man and less like a pampered girl than I last saw you. I take it back, you don't look more plump—it's just your face. You seem bloated."

"Yes, thank-you, Pansy, for pointing out that my face is puffy, and the vampire look does wonders for your manly features."

"No need to get touchy; I didn't say you looked bad, did I? I rather thought I was being complimentary."

"Yes, well," Draco decided, "I've come to learn what actual compliments are over the summer—would you like an example of one? They were very foreign to me, at first, but I eventually adjusted."

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to hear this," she said, casually, and took another sip from her goblet, her long dark eyelashes fluttering over the top of the rim. "Although, do be warned that I might laugh. Quite loudly and gratuitously."

Draco ignored her, "A compliment," he began, "would be something like… telling you that I think your necklace is rather fetching, but I wouldn't add in the part about how I think I'd seen it on a homeless guy in front of The Three Broomsticks in fourth year. You just keep the not-so-pleasant parts to yourself, see. It's about as good as it can get from us, I think."

"Oh," she smiled, "I think I understand. Draco, I think your hair looks really nice like that."

"Exactly," he smiled at her, really smirking, now, at their light and playful conversation.

When Draco went to look at Eli, across from him, Pansy said, under her breath, "But when was the last time you washed it?"

Draco frowned at her, "Yes, and your hair looks like it was painted in_ oil_."

"I've been in hiding for the last week. You, however, have obviously been living a lot more comfortably than most of us have," and she grabbed at the collar of his shirt that stuck out from under his robes, as if to make him see that his shirt was a stark and very clean white. He clasped his hand around his neck, then, defensively, but decided not to say anything. She sounded bitter, like she wanted to provoke him, but he didn't want to play along anymore. "But I suppose, being a Malfoy and all, it would be expected that the Golden Boy wouldn't have to fight in war like the rest of us."

Draco warily stared at her face, but then looked away, because he knew she meant it. She had no idea what he'd been through, just like he'd had no idea what she'd been through, but he didn't want to sit there and take her stares and comments, because, as he looked around the table, he realized that many of those familiar faces, from earlier, were staring at him with something of loathing, with anger, with things he couldn't really understand, so he slowly pushed himself up, with his palms on the table, and stepped back over the bench, uninterested in sitting there and feeling picked on. It would be easy for everyone to dislike him, because everyone needed someone to blame, and, after all, he was both the son of the Minister of Magic and the son of the Dark Lord's right-hand-man, so it was a lose-lose situation, and he despised it. He shook his head and then turned and looked at his former friends' faces, their blank and distant stares, their mouths in lines and frowns, and quietly said, "Why would I fight in a war I never believed in, never wanted a part of? I was not responsible for the choices _you_ made, Pansy, nor Blaise's. I asked each of you, at some point, to see reason, but you didn't. I'm not going to be _this _for you, a whipping-post. I made my decision, and it was the right one. You made your choices, and the only people to blame for that are yourselves, and you can't say I had an easier out than any of you, because I had the hardest one. Furthermore," and his tone raised, "_I_ was never responsible for any of you, and even though _I did try to help you_—may you remember that—I was rejected every single time, until I was made the black-sheep, as if none of your remember, and ostracized like I had cholera for a year. Don't talk down to me because I chose the right thing, for once; I've fought my fair share of wars, too, and you'd likely all still be in hiding if that weren't the case, but you'll never understand that, because, frankly, I led, and I got away, and I tried to get you to do the same, but you followed, and followers don't get truth, and they don't get the answers until it's too late; they get told fibs, they believe them, and then they place blame, because they refuse to blame themselves. It's no different, now, than it was last year."

"It's totally different, Draco," Pansy said, coldly. "We've all had losses; what have _you_ lost?"

"Not any friends, that's for damn sure," Draco answered, just as icily, and then turned and walked away.

In truth, Draco had gained. He had gained a best friend, Cornwell back, and a brother. He wouldn't feel guilty for that, and he just wanted to go back to how things were, two months ago—fuck that, maybe seven years ago. It wasn't right to feel this way, to feel guilty for not having lost anyone that close to him, as some of his classmates had. He was grateful that he hadn't lost anyone he loved, but they weren't out of the woods, yet, or even in the thick of them, and he kept that in mind as he walked right out of the Great Hall and in the opposite direction of the Great Hall steps. He walked for what seemed to be a mile, collecting his thoughts, across the lawns and around buildings, until he opened a door and walked into a large, magnificent room. It was empty, but it smelled good, like something was cooking nearby. He sighed. Where was everyone? Anyone?

"Hi, love," came a soft voice. "Draco, are you okay?"

Draco saw his mother coming in from a hallway, and he walked right for her, lowering his head, miserably. He didn't even say anything, just walked into a hug that was waiting for him. She had obviously seen that he was in need of some comfort, by the way he had just walked for her, silently. It felt good to be babied, sometimes, by his mother, but he'd never admit it to anyone. He sighed, though, as he pulled away from the hug, again, and she took one of his hands, cupping the other hand over his cheek with real concern in her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"They still hate me, despise me, wish me dead. I'm just a fool to them, just like before. I can't win, though this is hardly _even_ a game."

"Don't listen to them, Draco. Don't let it get to you, not today of all days, when you're lucky to be back here." He just sighed, like he knew, and he hated that he was so bothered by this. "Who was giving you trouble?"

"_Slytherins_!—mostly Pansy, but I could tell she wasn't alone. They think I'm just a joke, like I've been up in the Manor this whole time, unaffected. They blame me for their decisions, when it was them, last year, who told me I was a fool for my decisions."

This was nothing new to her. The year before, when they had turned on him, she'd known every detail and been there for every letter he had sent back home to her. He'd rarely include anything about them in letters to his father, but to his mother? She always knew what was going on if he didn't mind breaking her heart enough to tell her.

Narcissa sighed only so very heavily, quietly, in a way that showed great remorse for what had become of his friendships, and though she kept her eyes on him, he could tell her mind was more on why he would still care what they thought after the way things had transpired the prior year. Still, she encouraged him, "What happened?"

"I don't even want to talk about it," Draco scowled, pulling away from her affection, because he'd already said enough to make himself feel better. His mother's sympathy was the source of his comfort in times of trouble like these. "Where's Cornwell?"

"In the Order's Wing. He's been there for bit, working hard I'm sure."

Draco collapsed down onto a couch, lazily, unimpressed with Cornwell's absence, "_Figures._"

Narcissa cocked a very curved eyebrow at him, "What_ figures_?"

"That he's gone when I actually need him." After a few seconds, Draco eyed his mother, slowly, slightly offended that she was chortling. He knew he was being ridiculous and was acting like a fool, but he was still offended that she would laugh at him. He would have even rather had a small lecture on how his priorities were not straight. "_What_?"

Narcissa smiled at him, then, her lips closing together, and she said, through her amusement, "You're just really cute sometimes," and tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear. "It's sweet to think that you can be nearing eighteen and still have moments when I still see you as an eight year old being huffy about something or another. Instead of being moody, though, why don't you go see him? Nothing would make him more happy, I know."

"No, he's busy," Draco answered her, resting his arms and face down on the side of the couch, though he did feel embarrassed that she had added on that last part.

"Okay, love. Well, Dickie's taking a nap, but he should be up soon, if you want to wait, and maybe you can take him for a walk and show him around the grounds, or at least the halls."

"I want to die."

There was some silence, for a few seconds, before his mother snickered. Draco didn't even take offense, this time, because he knew he was being dramatic. He didn't want to go back to his usual home during the school year, and the longer he could stall himself, here, the better, "Go find Cornwell, would you? He was always much better at loathing self-pity than I was."

Draco sighed, lifting his head, miserably, "This is not funny. I'd forgotten how badly I felt when I left this place last year. I went right from everyone avoiding me to being the center of Harry's attention, and now I'm right back where I started."

"You miss Harry so much, love, don't you?" And there was her sympathy, again, in the form of empathy.

"He liked me," Draco defended himself, at once, and he didn't care how it sounded. "Well, he was forced to like me, and he only started to like me after he began to tolerate me." Again, she snickered. "But, even then, he thought my choices made me a good person."

"You are a good person, Draco, with or without what Harry thinks about you," she whispered, rubbing his back. "You _are _a very good person, and I don't want you to truly be this upset about the things your _classmates_ have said, because you didn't do anything to them. You were brave to stand up to your father, and you were brave to go against what was expected of you. Don't let them make you feel bad about making the right choice, Draco. Don't let them take all of the good that you've done, and said, and all of the things you've accomplished by taking a responsibility on yourself to see good things." He just sighed, again, because, yes, he knew that, but still. "Once upon a time, I knew a sixteen year old who would be standing in front of us, scoffing at you right now, for letting them affect you like this."

Draco scoffed, again, but then realized he was only making this more amusing for his mother, so he frowned, genuinely, instead. He pictured a slightly younger version of himself standing not to far from the front of the couch, with crossed arms and kept hair, looking down his nose at Draco, and he came to a conclusion. "It was easier being him. He was a better person than I am, now, is that it?"

"Not in the slightest," his mother assured, firmly, but with a bit of irritation at him for even suggesting something he knew wasn't true like that. "Because you're my son, I love you, and I always have, always will, but I've thanked _God_, Draco, since the day you first started showing signs of defiance and started quirking an eyebrow with… displeasure, I think it was… when your father was talking about You-Know-Who, openly, that you were coming into your own, and you wouldn't choose the life that your father and I have had. I have _never_ wished that life of you or for you, Draco. I never wanted that for myself, either, believe it or not. Do you know, one of the reasons your father never forced you into it was because he promised me, when you were born, that he'd raise you to be the man his father hadn't raised him as—of course he wanted you to join him, but he knew better than to actually think he could ever feel pride knowing you were part of that world. For Lucius, it was only a thought, an ideal, an unrealistic one, at that, that made him ever think he could have a son join him. Once he actually had you, and when I was... let's see, maybe a week from having you, he knew that, realistically, he couldn't ask, of you, at this age, what had been assumed of him. That was why he let you do things his father and grandfather hadn't. He let you listen to Muggle music and see Muggle movies once in awhile—he treasured you, and he still does. And so do I."

"I was part of that world, mother, and I still am to a degree—I was raised in it, and everyone—they, I mean—my—whoever they are—Pansy and—just because I don't have a mark on my arm doesn't mean _anything. _It doesn't matter at all. They just disregard me as if I haven't grown up with them."

"I know."

"I've come closer to the Dark Lord than any of them have, and have had more expected of me, tenfold, than they have, and have suffered at their expenses, too. They'd pee their fitted pants if they knew, and that's another thing—I've changed, and I know that I should be proud of myself for that, to an extent, and I don't mean to be a mindless ass about it, but I'm not in designer clothes, still, like she was—my robe is too big, my pants are _Harry's_, and last I heard, everything about her life has remained the same—her house wasn't attacked and ploughed into the ground —I know I shouldn't make something out of who has suffered the most, but what she said really grates at my nerves, as if I've been totally unaffected." He looked to her for agreement, or maybe a pity nod, and she gave them both to him. "That's not my life anymore—I wish... I wish I could have said that to her without her laughing in my face. I'm not the same person I was two, three years ago. I just wish they saw that as a good thing, but they still just think I betrayed them. But mother, I did try to get them to listen to me."

Draco saw his mother smile in the reflection of the nearby window, and he thought she seemed more beautiful and happy than he had ever seen her. She had gained weight, now that he could realize it, and her skin glowed with a radiance that only good eating brought, that only a lack of stress could let prevail. To think that their world was in chaos and that his mother happened to be the happiest he'd ever seen her, and appeared ten years younger, somehow amused him. His mother had rarely ever been so openly affectionate with him, growing up, unless it was when she had come to his room to say goodnight, but it was different now. Now, in the grand living room they were in, she could stroke his hair and humor his outbursts and laugh at things that were not proper. Draco couldn't help but wonder if his mother had been waiting for these moments for a long time, had been waiting for the day she could breathe easily, again, like she had when she had been his age, before _it_ had all really started.

"They'll come around, eventually, darling, if they're meant to," she replied, then, simply, and squeezed the back of his neck, lovingly, with a warm and motherly hand. "I promise they will. If not now, in five years, when everyone, including you, has gained perspective."

Draco pulled himself up, then, heavily, turned to her, and hugged her, "Thank-you, mother," he said, then, afterwards. He saw that she seemed surprised, so he just sighed—at everything, at life. "Our lives have been turned upside down, and only in the matter of a few months. I can't help but think you seem happier than I've ever seen you," he said, thoughtfully, and she did smile, like she was glad he had noticed. "Things will be okay—loyalties will settle, father will... come back to us, hopefully, and—I don't know, everything will be set the way it's supposed to be, right?"

"Absolutely, Draco," she said, then, contentedly and so sincerely, taking his hands in hers, even though hers were much smaller, but their elegance had been handed down to Draco's own. He could tell she wasn't entirely convinced that everything was going to be set right, and they both knew that was impossible, but for his sake, she gave him the falsity of hope he needed and then blatantly changed the subject. "I'm making cookies. Interested?"

Cookies? He cocked an eyebrow at her, at once, with great skepticism, "You're… _baking_? _Cookies_?"

"All by myself," she assured, then, proudly, and stood up. She turned to him and offered out her very elegant hands that had once been very skeletal, nearly, and thin, but were now more full, and, somehow, more maternal. He looked up at her, with great interest, awed by her, and he nodded, like to say he would come and sit with her, while she baked, so he let her help him up, like he was a little boy, and then he followed her down the hallways and into the kitchens. All of the windows were open, and the trees right outside of them were blowing in the most refreshing breeze, possibly, that had ever existed. The breeze also let swirl, under his nose, a scent of baked things and chocolate.

"Smells good!" He tried not to sound surprised. "Chocolate Chip cookies?"

"And Butter cookies," she told him, with a pointed smile at him that he appreciated, because Butter cookies were his favorite cookies in the entire world. "The Chocolate Chip are Dickie's favorite, I think, but I couldn't make those without making you some Butter cookies. I was going to give them to you, tonight, in this nice little tin I picked up for you in the shops—wore a brown wig, actually, and some glasses, and no one recognized me. I think I rather like not being recognized. Avoids a lot of questions, yes?"

"Yes," Draco agreed, sitting down at one of the stools by the kitchen island, as his mother handed off to him a cookie tin that had colorful little dragons on it. He couldn't help but laugh. He wasn't offended by the tin. She had always sent him rather cute tins full of things, but never had she sent him homemade cookies on his first day back at Hogwarts. This was another new change, and he thought he would decide if he liked it or not after he tried the cookies... and survived the night, hopefully far away from the bathroom. He did mentally take note that his tin collection had been ruined, he was sure, with the destruction of the manor, and so this would be his very first tin, the start of a new beginning, of sorts. "I would imagine so, but where did you get a wig?"

"There was an old furry rug in one of the guest rooms, so I cut off a piece and transfigured it."

"Crafty," Draco noted, too, pretty impressed, and then sat back more contentedly. His mother had lived a life where most of her spells and wand-work had been more centered around useful things, when she even used her wand, like her makeup compact coming to her from her bathroom suite or something, but now she had the chance to transfigure, and he wasn't used to hearing that. At the manor, her every whim had been tended to by house-elves. She'd barely had to lift a finger for anything, much less a wand. Perhaps one of the reasons she'd seemed so lost, over the years, was her lack of use of her magic. "Has Cornwell been around at all?"

"He came back after he walked you up to your dorms, put Dickie to sleep, and then left."

"Oh—do you think he'd mind if I went and visited him?" No, that wasn't the right question, because he knew the answer. He fidgeted, at first, and then shifted. "Do you think that would be too needy?"

Narcissa looked up at him, at once, with a spatula in hand, and just gave him a long, nearly incredulous stare.

"What?" He finally asked, uncomfortably, insecure about that look.

"Too _needy_? Draco, come on," she said, giving him a very frank look he wasn't entirely used to in this setting, from her of all people. "He loves every moment you're within ten feet of him, and you know so. Being _needy_ is something you shouldn't even... that shouldn't even be in your mind! Don't you think he'd be happy to see you? He's the one who thinks he bothers you too much, so if you want a better relationship, one that's not this ridiculous, where you're both afraid of being too needy to the other, then you're going to have to work on your communication. Don't be so daft, darling. He adores you. He'd be delighted to see you a hundred times a day for the rest of his life, I'm sure."

"Well, he just took me up to school, and suddenly I'd be around, again, and looking for attention when we both know he's extremely busy..."

"If there's one thing I still know about Cornwell, Draco, it's that he loves giving you attention. Too much of it, if you ask me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that he spoils you with all of his attention. You'll be here everyday, looking for him, and we'll have no break from you."

"Mother!" Draco protested, seriously offended, and he leaned up over the kitchen island.

She laughed, then, turning around to him, and she pushed a tin of cookies to him, with warm eyes, "I'm just teasing, love. I would only be so lucky to have you around everyday, like I have the last couple of months. Draco," she softly hummed, and reached out and gave his hand a tiny squeeze, before pulling her fingertips away to grab a cookie, too, "I don't want to get too motherly on you and embarrass you when you're already emotional, but you do know that I've never felt more close to you than these last couple of months, don't you? I feel as if I really know my son, now. I love you very much, and I hope you know that I'm so proud of the decisions that you have made, regardless of what anyone says, and I'm so proud of the man—_young man_, but you're still by baby in some ways—you've let yourself become. It would hurt me for you to question the maturing you've done since this time last year. I hope you'd know better than to let them steal power away from you with their comments. Many things may have changed for all of us, but regardless, you are still a Malfoy, and a Malfoy wouldn't let them get away with that."

"Mother," Draco groaned, quietly, feeling honestly embarrassed, but then he grabbed a cookie, got to his feet, again, and walked around to her. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, quickly, flushing, and then slurred, as he walked out of the kitchen, in a hurry, "I actually feel like I have a real mother now," in reference to the last couple of months, as well. It was true that he felt like he knew his mother better, as a person, than he had ever. He saw her smile, now, and laugh, happily, and drink from plastic cups versus goblets, and she didn't always wear proper dresses everywhere, even at breakfast. Now, at breakfast, she would come to the table in a pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, and that was amazing in itself. He could see his mother as human, now, whereas before she had been more of a piece of art that could not be talked to without formalities. They had had wonderful moments, in the past, and there had been times when he had snuggled up to his mother, when he was a child, and she had held him, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, and told him stories, and she had been there to stroke his cheek and kiss his forehead when he was sixteen, but only on special occasions. She had been a mother of her environment, then. The summer had changed her life in ways, Draco could now understand, she had been waiting for since maybe before he'd been born.

Fuck, the woman had actually baked cookies, by herself, and they were really, really good.

Draco went to Cornwell's study, opened the door to the secret tunnel that Cornwell had only shared with him, and he walked for at least a half a mile, until he came to a round opening in the tunnel. He peaked through a tiny hole in the wall, saw that there was no one in the room he was planning on entering, and then he pulled the lever to the right. The entire bottom portion of the wall slid open, without so much as a scrape of the stones to the stone floor, and then it closed right behind him. It lead to the wing of the actual Hogwarts castle that the Order had set up in, and it was a wing that was hidden by hidden doors, anyway. He walked to the door and opened it, which opened into a huge room full of people at desks, leaning over stacks of paper. Ah, the Order—the location had changed, but the environment hadn't. It even smelled like coffee—he was growing to hate that smell, but he treasured it all the same. It smelled like his entire summer, and that was nice.

"Good afternoon, Draco."

Draco looked over to Remus, and then smiled and walked over, "Hello, Remus."

"I thought Cornwell had left you up at the school."

Hiding his embarrassment, Draco tried to shrug coolly, and he thought he pulled it off rather well, "I got bored."

"Mmm," the man said, marking a cross on what seemed to be a map, before he looked back up at Draco, "I'm sure."

Draco glared at him, openly, but then kind of chuckled, "Where is he, anyway?"

"I believe he said something about heading up to the school to see how you were."

"Lies."

With a chuckle, too, Remus motioned his head to a hallway, "He's in the library, meeting with someone. You can't interrupt, but he should be done in about a half-an-hour if you're willing to wait."

"Figures," Draco sighed, then, again, and crossed his arms over his chest as he eyed the map, and he knew that, beneath it, were at least a couple dozen other maps. Remus did this a lot. "What is that, anyway?"

"A map."

"Yes, I can see that—I mean, what's it for? What are the different color cross-marks for? We don't usually use colors when we do those."

"Plotting possible escape-routes for the battle tonight."

Yes, yes; Draco knew that, as well. Was there anything new? News on Harry, perhaps, "Can I come?"

"No, just like you haven't been able to come the last few times."

"That figures, too."

"Do you continue to ask because you actually want to come, or do you ask because you know you'll be told you're not allowed to, but you still end up looking noble and brave for having asked in the first place?"

"Oh, I see you thinking you know me all too well, Professor," Draco dripped at him with a little more venom than he usually would have, considering the former similar issue with Pansy, but he tried to cover it with a tilted head and a cocked eyebrow.

The man chuckled, clearly having noted Draco's mood, "There's always fresh tea and sugar in the kitchen. Why don't you go and have yourself a cup of tea, far away from me, and take a few deep breaths?"

"I'm quite calm where I am, thanks."

"Do your ears always get this red when you're calm?" He glanced back up at Draco who they both knew was trying not to touch his ears. He was lingering. "If you want to ask about Harry, just ask."

"Whatever—tell Cornwell, when he gets out of this meeting that's so important, that keeps him from his oldest son, _whom he abandoned for four years_," and he saw Remus roll his eyes, but Draco had intended for that, so he inwardly laughed, "that I stopped by, and that I'm not being needy—make sure you add that part, about me _not _being needy—but that I had a question about something, from—uh, my classmates—so, okay? Can you relay that message for me?"

"Sure, but why not just wait for him since you're already here?"

"No, he'd just think I'm pathetic for coming to see him."

"Oh, so you're _not _here to ask him a question, that _only he knows the answer to_, for your classmates?"

Draco dully stared at him, with arms crossed over his chest, and then drawled, "Why do you pick on me so much, Lupin?"

"Sorry, it's just very easy. You're very transparent when it comes to Cornwell, and I find it highly enjoyable to exploit."

"And_ you_ were a _Gryffindor_? You do seem to get some sick pleasure out of torturing me, but... transparent? Meaning what, exactly? Tell me, so I can better my non-emotional ways, as, apparently, I've so far failed in doing so."

"_Meaning_ that you obviously act like a five year old child, and you want his undivided attention whenever you say so, and when he's not around to give it to you, you try pretend you're not _really_ that desperate to see him, but I know you are; everyone knows you are. He knows best. Chuckles whenever you leave, you know, and someone makes a comment about how much you're around. He likes your undivided attention probably as much as you like his, if not more; no need to pretend you don't need him. How could you not, right now, anyway? There's nothing wrong with that, Draco."

"You know nothing of the truth, but you can continue to have your delusions."

Remus laughed, again, and motioned Draco away with his hand, "Go play with your toys."

Draco dropped his arms, but he couldn't help his laughter, "You're such a bastard to me."

"Ah, you love it," the man said, then, and then pointed to the kitchen hallway. "Draco, I am rather busy, though."

"No one has time for me."

"Go steal things, then, and be rebellious."

"You won't even play with me. Surely tonight's maps are mostly done, anyway?"

"I told you: _I'm busy_. Yes, they're_ almost_ done, meaning _not yet_."

"But you just started a verbal war, and you expect me not to play into it."

"You're distracting me from my work."

"You're very much a proper bastard sometimes."

"Toys, now."

"_Mean. _Pure, unadulterated _mean._"

"Sometimes you act just like a baby would, you know."

"Go to hell, would you? _Please_."

"Fine, a whiny toddler."

"Where's Cornwell?"

"Still in his meeting, like he was two minutes ago."

"What are you doing?"

"Same thing as two minutes ago!"

"Am I annoying you?"

"_Yes_."

"Oh, good," Draco smiled, finally. "That's all I was hoping for. Do relay the message to him, though."

"I think it'd be best if you just wait for him to finish his meeting, because I easily happen to accidentally _forget_ your messages, so if you want him to get your message, stop making everyone else do the relaying of messages_ for _you."

"Why do you hate me so much?"

"Why do you insist on annoying me so much!"

"You, calling me a whiny toddler? The mirror is rather reflective today, is it not? Take a look in it. Now who's acting like a child!"

"You, in five seconds, if you don't get the hell away from me."

"I was kidding, before, but... you're rather mean, Remus."

"For God's sake," the man sighed, and then he moved from Draco and down into the library hall.

Draco smirked, pleased with himself, and he quickly followed after Remus. Remus was easy to break.

Remus knocked on a dark wooden, heavy door, as he was one of the only who could do so and get an answer.

"What is it?" Came a voice, and it was Cornwell's.

"There's a whiny toddler, here, who is being _needy_ and wants to see you," Remus said into the door.

Draco sighed, silently, and then shoved the Professor, angrily, just for effect.

Remus shoved him back, as if to say, "You got what you deserved."

Draco turned to the door and spoke into it, "He's lying. I'm not being needy. I have a question—_a genuine question—p_osed by one of my classmates, therefore very legitimate!" He did need to come up with that question, though, his brain suddenly suggested, and quickly.

The door opened, and Cornwell appeared, distracted, no less, but there, and he looked between them, strangely, "Everything all right?"

Draco stood up perfectly straight, but Remus glared at him as he turned and walked away.

Cornwell smiled at Draco, then, from looking after Remus, "Oh, I see. He might bite you, one of these full-moons, if you don't ease up."

"Whatever," Draco replied, "I could deal with it—so..."

Cornwell laughed, reached out to Draco's elbow, took it in his hand, and led him out of the library, so they were following the professor who had, obviously, enjoyed his break from working to pretend to be annoyed with Draco. Draco was comic relief to many Order members, and he knew it. He took the role on with fair importance. Sometimes they _needed_ him to be around to be ridiculous and annoying, although many times he was actually serious and helped in the efforts with whatever task was needed of him. He kept things light, sometimes, and that was the feeling that Cornwell gave him, especially in moments like the current one, where Cornwell was truly concentrating on him, "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," Draco answered, automatically, on auto-pilot. "Was that an important meeting?"

"Particularly—you seem upset, did something happen?"

"No, no. I'm fine."

"Is everything with Blaise all right, then?"

"Yes, just fine. He's resting off some of that sleep deprivation right now—bit of a basket-case, though."

"Poor boy, but that's as to be expected, right now," Cornwell said, thoughtfully, though without humor and full of true empathy that Draco could tell. "Did you have some lunch?"

"No."

"Would you like to stay here and have lunch with us? It's about that time."

Draco shrugged, coolly, "No, I can go back up to the school or back home—I mean, where you guys are—I mean, where my mum—I mean, where—wherever it is you guys are all sleeping tonight," without him, but whatever. He tilted his head at his thoughts, then, curiously, and bit into his bottom lip. He liked that Cornwell had his left hand on Draco's own left shoulder, gently, and he could tell that Cornwell was looking at him as they were walking. Draco was needy, kind of, for this sort of relationship with Cornwell, and he didn't currently dislike it, maybe, as much as he should have. He hadn't had much time alone with Cornwell, recently, to talk to him about anything in-depth. This left Draco feeling unsettled, and yes, he did understand that Cornwell had a lot on his mind, but somewhere inside of Draco, the lack of time spent getting to know Cornwell better was starting to bother him.

"Please stay and have a bite?" Said Cornwell, softly, just to Draco, so it didn't even bounce off of the dark walls. Perhaps he was getting a sense of what Draco was feeling. "You've walked all of this way, you know, so there's no need to head back just yet—we could talk about…" Nothing. They had nothing to talk about, right then, really, and Cornwell's lack of a finished thought wounded Draco badly, and even when Cornwell quickly went to speak, again, it was too late.

Draco turned a little, slightly pulling away, "No, I should go. I have people to deal with."

Cornwell tilted his head, and if he had noticed that Draco had just pulled away, mentally and emotionally, he didn't let it show. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah—I have to kill a few of them. If a Ministry Relations officer comes to see you, speak nothing of this conversation."

"What conversation?" And Draco laughed, but dryly, and went to turn, like he was going to go ahead and leave, but Cornwell quickly jumped on the energy. "If you're not busy, I think your mother is bringing cookies. I… think she'd like for you to stay and have some."

"No, I can't, and _yes_, they're very good. I already tried one."

"Oh," said Cornwell, and Draco saw him smile a little more, with warm eyes. He seemed more tired, now, than he ever had. His usual undivided attention had a lot of other multiples attached to it, so he was never quite there, and sometimes he wasn't quite there at all, but he tried to give Draco as much attention as he could have when Draco came looking for it, and so Draco could only appreciate that, even though, yeah… something had just gone down that he wasn't sure quite how to explain, yet, but inside he felt like he had shriveled up a bit. "She actually made them? She said she was going to, but I thought she was bluffing."

"My mother does not really bluff when it comes to baking—sure, she can cook all right, but baking?" Draco stated the obvious, feeling his forehead wrinkle at the utmost serious nature of her bluffing and so-called kitchen skills, but not in a mean way. She had just never embraced the art of baking or cooking—her life hadn't asked that of her. "B_elieve-you-me_, she would not bluff about baking if her life depended on it, so she must be committed to this, maybe reading a secret cook-book or watching Misses Weasley—I wouldn't put it past her—past either of them."

"If they pass your taste test, I'm impressed. Was she making Chocolate Chip cookies?"

"Yeah, Dickie's favorite."

"Oh, really? The Dickie that I know despises Chocolate Chip cookies."

"Oh," he bit into his bottom lip, and then turned to look at Cornwell, who seemed less distracted than he been even the few seconds earlier. He seemed extremely uncomfortable and upset in a different way than usual, but Draco didn't give him credit. "Please don't tell her that," he couldn't help but ask, turning more to look into the dark eyes, seriously. He would have nearly stopped the older man had it not been for the gush of wind that raced past them, nearly knocking him sideways and putting space between the two of them—this wind was also named PEG, and Draco did scowl at her presence, _always getting in between the people he most treasured and himself,_ whether she meant to or not, before he rejoined his father, because she had also seemed to knock them apart completely, so Cornwell's hand was no longer on his shoulder, and the connection was now gone in more ways than one. "She seemed really excited to be making them for him. Don't put a bludgeon in it; she'd be crushed. Besides, they're good, at least."

"Of course I won't say anything, especially about something like her making the wrong kind of cookie," Cornwell assured Draco. "He loves Butter cookies, for the record."

"Oh, like me, then. No big deal, because she made those, too."

"Who'd she make the Chocolate Chip ones for, then?"

"Dickie."

Draco tried not to cast a foreboding shift of his eyes at the man to his right, nervous about how little focus he seemed to have, anymore, always disregarding the slightest of information and asking the same question three minutes later, much like what had just happened. If his father saw Draco's concern, he covered that well, too, but Draco was beginning to come to the conclusion that he was very much a professional at covering his expressions.

"Right, _right_. I know, I was listening." He squeezed Draco's shoulder, then, as if to tell him that he saw right through Draco, and neither protested. "Will you please stay for lunch? I'd like that."

"No, I have to head back," Draco said, as they reached the main room, again, and the quiet imbalance of the quiet chaos. "But I'll see you for dinner."

"Dinner," Cornwell said, as if he approved of this new idea of dinner, like he had not been the one to make sure Draco would be at dinner in the first place. He paused, for a mere instant, thoughtfully, from a couple of feet ahead of Draco. He backed up, just like he was on rewind, and then pivoted to Draco. He lifted his finger, and Draco lifted an eyebrow, watching with amused eyes as the fingertip neared his cheek. He placed it right on Draco's cheek, not looking at Draco but rather his own finger, and he traced something there. When he was done, he gave Draco's face a once-over, like he was searching for something, before he went and turned in that way he always did, like there should have been robes turning with him in a show of power, billowing grandly, but there were no such robes, just black trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt pushed up to each of his elbows, with three buttons at the top hem, the first two undone.

Draco just stood there, frozen, until he could manage to blink at what had just happened and what was now invisibly written on the skin of his cheek, and it wasn't for the first time that such a thing had been put there. He immediately stepped forward, with narrowing eyes and eyebrows, and surged right after the older man. He demanded, at once, in his most old Draco-Malfoy-says-you-better-fucking-stop-right-now sort-of-way, "You had better stop in your tracks and turn around and tell me what that was or you'll be facing down the barrel of my not-so-metal wand."

Cornwell turned around, expectantly, with very open eyes and silent questioning.

Draco frowned at the expression, but then just asked the obvious, "You've heard something, haven't you?"

Cornwell rubbed his jaw with his right hand, looking between Draco and the floor, but he only shrugged, "I could not really tell you if I had, and you know that."

Draco took a step forward and pushed out an accusatory fingertip, but it was gentle, "You know something? You've heard something? Cornwell, please? Please tell me," and then he realized that he had no power over Cornwell like he did with the people who let themselves be manipulated by him. Draco didn't even continue to try, and so he let out another semi-pathetic plea. "_Please_?" All he wanted to know is if the second version of the best friend he had ever had, and best enemy, was at least rumored to be all right.

Again, Cornwell shrugged, not fazed at all by Draco's descent into vulnerability, something Draco appreciated, because that meant he didn't have to hide behind any sort of demeanor for the sake of appearing a certain way to Cornwell like he'd always had to do with Lucius, especially with people around, even if they weren't close enough to hear. However, on a different note, that little part of Draco shriveled up a bit more, and it was then that he mentally called for answers from his tightening chest.

"Dinner," Cornwell said, busily, instead of answering Draco's request, as he turned again in his scuffed, well-worn shoes that needed replacing. "Make sure you're there or you're in that enormous trouble that we were speaking about, a'right?"

Draco let him go, but then just stood there, strangely, mouth twisted up and hands heavily at his sides.

Cornwell had heard news about Harry, and Draco was sure of it. Cornwell would never have imitated a drawing on his cheek unless it had meant something involving Harry, quite clearly. He wanted to stay and further question Cornwell, but he knew he'd get nowhere with his questioning. He'd rather play it safe and wait for dinner to come around, and maybe his patience would pay off. For a moment, was tempted to just return "home," but he knew he had to get back and see how Blaise was. It was going to be a challenge for him to spend most of his time at the castle when he knew his family was within the immediately vicinity, especially Dickie, who he was used to hanging out with during the day, so he was going to have to start making sure his school priorities were set, sooner than later. This meant that he was going to have to limit himself to his family which, before the summer, he had been a professional at. He was positive it would be a flawless transition. After all, he had spent the majority of his life being poised with his affections and needs. He told himself that things would be fine, but he didn't like the nagging disappointment in the back of his mind. The thing was, if he wanted to get back in with his classmates and not spend another year completely ostracized, he was going to need to throw back in a fair amount of the Draco Malfoy he had once been. He didn't particularly want to do this, but desperate times called for desperate measures or something as equally and simply profound.

When Draco returned to his dormitory, he was considering himself unlucky, but from where Harry lay his head at night, Draco was lucky. The only thing he'd known concerning Draco, over the last few weeks, had been that Draco was okay, and only that had been divulged to him in terms of whether or not Draco had yet been killed when the reports came in. When he'd helped Blaise make the escape for his life, he'd given Blaise a simple coin that he'd found in the dungeons of the shambles left of Malfoy manor. Lucius had told him, only once, when they'd happened to be within the same ten feet of breathing space of each other, that his own father had bought him a set of coins, and he'd given one to Lucius and kept one for himself. Harry hadn't understood what that story had meant until he'd thought about it for awhile, with the two coins in his pocket. He had then come to realize, after having dreamed of the smell of strong coffee and the familiar faces of Order members, and Draco's laughing smile, and then being awoken by something hot in his pocket, that there had been more to the coins than he'd imagined. Well, they were tracking coins, of sorts, and Harry had asked Blaise to give this old rusty coin to Draco in return for Harry—well, Judas, to Blaise—helping him run.

It had yet to burn, which Harry figured was either because Blaise hadn't made it to Draco or hadn't given it to Draco, but Harry still kept hope that the painful burning would surprise him, one day, from the place where he had the coin strapped around his bare thigh, under his pants and most certainly under the black cloaked robe that he wore with the matching mask that was conveniently connected via black satin ribbons. It was connected so that it would be hard to lose, because a Death Eater always did need his mask handy, and that was one of the many things—handy things, at that—that Harry had come to learn, second always to the very clear loyalty that made "hard to lose" a lifestyle, not at all a choice.

Despite the fact that he barely knew who he was, anymore, or what he was doing, and he hadn't bathed in at least two weeks, was always covered in black soot, he had come to understand the inner workings of the Death Eater movement, which was far more organized and conformed than he would have liked. He didn't take it lightly, but it was his current way of life, and the easiest way for him to have been able to blend in was to embrace if as if it were all real, all him. There had come many surprises, though, and Harry had easily understood why it was that Death Eaters got involved in the cause and never left. There were perks—big ones—and good food when they weren't in hiding, but Harry was on assignment, now, after having spent time under Voldemort's nose, being watched, Harry had been sure, every second of every day and even more during the night. He'd lay in bed and refuse to sleep, then, fearing Voldemort could reach inside of him and discover the truth of the whole matter, but so far, Harry was sure, Voldemort wasn't onto him—or maybe he was, but if he was, he sure humored Harry's life enough to let him live. He'd been in the man's presence at least two dozen times, at close range, and so the fact that he was still alive and breathing spoke for the lie he was leading, but he wasn't a beginner in leading a life of uncertainty and lies.

After originally leaving, he hadn't contacted the Order for two weeks, and only then it had been because of that moment with Lucius, before the coins, when he'd just casually looked over Harry, as they'd been walking through Death Eater members who were cleaning up the rubble from the collapse of the Malfoy Manor, and suggested that, perhaps, if there were people who still loved him, out there in the world, in the fight, he should set straight his priorities and make his intentions clear. Speaking in riddles was practically the language of the people around Harry, now, and he'd become accustomed to doing the same. Sometimes it felt like he was being brainwashed, because during "pep-talks"—and there were many—and speeches, when the cheers would go up, he'd be cheering, too, without having had to remind himself to do so. In a way, part of him was invested in this cause, the complete opposite of the cause he'd been fighting, knowingly, for six or seven years, the same cause his parents had died opposing. He had needed to get in and see this, first hand, and that was why he had left behind the safety of the Order, the safety of a hidden place, to be out in the open where he could get his hands dirty to both convince people that he was Judas and convince himself that he couldn't keep hiding, waiting for something to happen. He had to make things happen, on his own, sometimes, because most of his life had been spent waiting for something or another, and none of that had ever been in his own control.

This, however, wasn't just about his life.

Harry sat in a tiny room with two metal beds and black sheets, one bed meticulously made and one, the one that he sat on, in a state of utter chaos, covers and pillows everywhere, the bottom of the fitted sheets riding up on the bed so that the mattress was showing. He now existed in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor again, maybe miles under the ruined rubble surface, inaccessible to anyone who wasn't a Malfoy patriarchal figure. He was positive that even Draco didn't know that the place where he sat existed. It was grimy and cold, yes, but it was home for many Death Eaters. It was the former home of his roommate who had slept in the made bed two feet from his—Blaise. He and Blaise had never gotten along at school, but they'd gotten on all-right enough in their room after Harry had assured Blaise that he was not going to kill him. They hadn't exactly liked each other, but Harry had helped him, and Blaise had pulled him out of a tight situation or two, having pledged to "Judas" that he'd right his wrong. Blaise had experience with things Harry did not, and he'd quickly come to accept that. This was, after all, something Blaise had been preparing for his whole life, always on the defensive and thinking strategically.

"Kid," came a gruff voice from the other side of the wooden door, "come get some food before it's gone. You know they'll take no pity on you—you're young, they're old. You have plenty of energy, they don't, and so-on—do you hear me?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Iker. I'll be out in a minute," Harry replied, looking up from his shoes. He stood up, hesitantly, and looked around. There were no windows. He hadn't seen sunlight in two weeks, and that wasn't an exaggeration. All he did was plan attacks and chart them out, now, on graphs, since Blaise, his partner, per se, had defected and "disappeared." A man name Krumpet was the one who made partner assignments, and he hadn't found anyone else for Judas. Harry hadn't complained, not for a second, but he pretended to be really forth-going with his happiness when other partners were around and talking about their assignments, for dramatic affect. Complaining was not very welcome, here, anyway.

The hallways were tiny, small, and made of old limestone blocks or something of the sort. Harry figured that he could ask someone, but he hadn't just yet. Questions were shaky territory, even, because every Death Eater was suspicious of every other Death Eater, and questions were like tabs kept in the mind, very much on file and very likely to be questioned within a question or a look or at suggestion, and sometimes with a smile. Careful, indeed, he told himself. He'd been so careful, yes, in the way he walked, in the way he moved his wrist when he shot a spell, and even in the way he wrote, in all capital letters, small, and with a back-left slant versus the straight up-and down penmanship he'd been using all his life. He tried his hardest to never be himself for fear someone might recognize something familiar about him and start whispering to other members if they had any strange stories or thoughts on him. This wasn't far-fetched, because people had suspiciously asked him, in dark corners, about other members.

You always had to watch your back, but at the end of the day, the other members had _your_ back.

A small wheezing sound sounded out from behind him, so Harry turned around, quickly, not bothering to draw his wand. There was nothing there, nothing at all. He walked forward, carefully, saying nothing. The wheeze came forth again, and Harry considered, for a moment, that someone might be using an Invisibility Cloak or an invisibility charm, but no. This wheeze sounded too familiar to be threatening and too deep and, well, somewhat sweet to be human. It was a distressed sound, and Harry found that it was coming from the wall, so he walked over, quietly, and peered down at nothing, going on gut. He pressed his ear to the wall and listened for another wheeze, and he got one, a furious one, like the wheezing thing knew it was he who was listening, and Harry knew just who the wheezing thing was. He couldn't believe it, really, but he knew he had to believe it to make sure the little thing lived long enough to be returned to his owner. He leaned down, then, and fell onto his hands and knees, searching for one tiny connection to one of the lives he'd lead before this dark, sunless place. He crawled quickly along the floor until he found a vent, not caring about how dirty his hands would be or the pebbles and dust that scratched his palms, because they had been dirtied, now, by things much worse than dirt, things that he couldn't wash away, and he peered inward, waiting patiently for it to come to him. He even stuck his fingertip in, as quietly as he could, with his lips to the cold metal, seeing nothing but darkness and the colorful pixels that had burst forth from his eyes at the possible revelation, "Come."

Little pattering feet were heard, and soon enough, there was a pair of big eyes looking out at him.

_Pufflyflit_. It was true, it really was him. Harry looked around, quickly, when he had his confirmation, and carefully listened to make sure he didn't hear any footsteps coming from nearby halls. If Pufflyflit was still alive after the mass destruction of Malfoy Manor, there was a reason. He was smart, he knew where to hide, but, also, he was to be returned to Draco. Pufflyflit had been everything to Draco when he'd been a boy, so Harry had heard in stories over the late summer, and that was what he immediately thought about. Lucius had told Draco, weeks before, that it was likely Pufflyflit had been lost in the destruction of the Manor, and though Draco hadn't talked about it, really, he had been awfully quiet and withdrawn for the few days following. Grimacing at this memory, he snapped his wrist, with his newly-drawn wand, and whispered a spell at the vent. It popped open, quietly, and Harry reached in for Pufflyflit, carefully, with one hand, and held the vent in the other. He was slightly anxious about the risk of Pufflyflit being scared and snorting fire at him, but he didn't have the time nor the patience to be hesitant.

Pufflyflit ran right into his left hand, and joy sprung forth from the very core of Harry's physical and emotional being. It was like he was being reunited with his own pet, like Hedwig, maybe. Excited and nervous, Harry pulled him close and tucked him under his cloak and then popped the brass vent back on the small hole that was made in the stone wall. He got to his feet as quickly as he could and high-tailed it back to his room, keeping his face down for no particular reason, but that was normal, now. He remained calm and casual until he was in the small room, the door safely closed and locked behind him. He moved to his bed and opened his cloak, setting the tiny dragon down on the bed and falling to his knees in front of him when he whispered for his wand to illuminate the space between them.

He wished he wouldn't have.

Pufflyflit was ill, skinny, and probably dying, as that was all Harry could conclude. He probably hadn't had anything to eat in a long time, at least nothing of substance other than what he could have found in the walls—which, well, might have been a lot, when Harry thought about it. Still, though, he was worried at once, and he found himself wrapping his hand around the small dragon's back, comfortingly, not even noticing the scaly hyde or pushed back ears, more concerned about showing Pufflyflit kindness than worrying about his own fate, "I'll get you some meat," he whispered, so softly, as if Pufflyflit could understand. "You'll be okay, you will." Sometimes hearing himself speak was strange, because he spoke so little, and had come accustomed to that. "Just hang on. I'll get you back to him, I will. _I promise._" When he stroked Pufflyflit's back, the dragon moved into his palm for more affection and attention. He was a needy dragon, because Draco had given him so much love and affection, so getting attention from anyone, even Harry—Judas—probably made the small dragon feel a whole world of difference better, especially by the way he collapsed into the messy covers and rested his head, curled his tail in, and peered hopefully at Harry, for him to be of some assistance. "Fine." Even though the dragon tilted its small head, Harry continued to speak to him. "I'll get you back to him _tonight_. Good enough? Of course it's good enough. You're a dragon. And I'm talking to you." He frowned, then, and pressed his forehead into his hands. There was no way he could kill Voldemort here, and he had come to that conclusion long ago. This was not a one-man job, not until the very end, and he knew the very end wasn't _very close_.

Pufflyflit let himself be buried under Harry's messy covers, without a fight, and Harry left in a hurry.

At nine o'clock, which was Harry's usual bedtime, he pulled on his cloak and lifted Pufflyflit with great care, eyes on him like a hawk. This was the second time in one day that he was leaving Malfoy Manor for the foreign home of Hogwarts. He pressed his wand to the wall of his cell—er, room—and whispered a tiny incantation. The blocks parted ways, almost silently, and so he coughed loudly to muffle the sound, just in case anyone was listening or walking by. As he walked through, he thanked whoever was above him or below him or around him that Lucius Malfoy was the one who'd made his sleeping arrangements. This, coincidentally, had been the same route out that Blaise had taken two weeks earlier, and the only person who knew about this entrance was Lucius Malfoy, because he'd made it when he'd been nineteen or so said the engraved words in the dirt-carved tunnel that both he and Blaise had explored one afternoon when they'd supposed to have been on assignment.

Harry ran as fast as he could for what felt like an hour until he reached the end of the tunnel, and then he entered another. He followed only the clean path that Lucius had left, or someone had, not veering off into the somehow dark, root-invaded caves and ways. Though his heart was burning and his anxiety level was unprecedented, he kept on as fast as he could. He wouldn't allow himself to walk, not this time, because this was the time he was really leaving for good, and he was terrified with paranoia that someone could come running up behind him and ruin this for him, the escape. It was the lack of sun, the lack of sleep, the lack of nutrition… he was affected, and the slower he ran, as his energy faded, the further the end of the tunnel felt, the end of the very long way to Hogwarts, but eventually, after what felt like three times as long as it had felt earlier, he arrived where he had been mentally stationed for months.

He climbed up through a hole and pushed past something wet and damp, and came out looking up at the stars with a huge wooden circle covered with moss. Lucius Malfoy had been pretty crafty, that Harry had come to admit to himself more than once, lately, and he was wondering if he'd ever have to keep that secret. It wasn't such a secret that the man had been helping him. No secret at all, at least to Harry. He quickly covered the hole back up with his heel and his toes, and then a scrape of his fingertips for good measure, clutching the tiny dragon in his warm cloak, and then he hid behind the closest tree, nearly tumbling there. He breathed out, shakily, and the peeked around the uneven bark to make sure the coast was clear. It was, and so he made his break from the prison called Death Camp and ran, permanently, for the same reason Blaise had run. Except, really, no one knew Blaise had run. They thought he'd been killed, and there had been one person who had set that all up, and this was the same person who had set up the death of Harry Potter's Judas Cliffdale.

However, there was no magical way for him to get from the Manor to Hogwarts, at least not for another ten miles and countless lunges behind bushes and trees, even at night—it was never safe, not this close to Hogwarts. It was not easy to get out of this place, but he'd been there long enough. He'd done what he'd needed to do and had obtained what he thought he'd find useful, the "cause" might find useful, and he'd quite found himself ready to announce retirement from life more than five times, but he'd kept on—for what reason he still could barely understand. He knew, though, that mostly it came down to, if he ever really needed the easy way out, he'd take it, because it would always be there, so he didn't need to rush. He had options. For now. He had places to be, now, and none of them were Hogwarts, at least not in a way that would mean him suddenly taking classes, no, or sauntering back into school life. He had done his time, now, and a nice calm before the storm had settled, somewhat, but once he returned to the Order, it would be, well... _on,_ once they had a few days to settle back in together and work things out. There was no hurry, here, and that was probably the biggest and most useful piece of information Harry had gotten. Voldemort was in no rush, and he had the virtue of patience to make up for his lack of most other virtuous characteristics in his very, very perfectly flawed personality. Granted, he was a murderer, but not entirely void of human interaction—not emotion, no, but interaction. Harry had seen instances that confused his mind and hurt his heart. He had seen sides of Voldemort he had wished he never had. At least before, in all ways, Voldemort had just been the enemy, a target, a one-dimensional evil bastard with the intent to kill. Now, though, he was still those things, just more 3-dimensional, a man who laughed and enjoyed milk for dinner, who told stories about being a teenager—fond ones, ones of friends—he'd actually had friends—in dorm-rooms and pranks on old foolish teachers. It was sad, really, that that part of Voldemort had died at seventeen, but that person still was inside of him, and Harry recognized so, and he also recognized himself in that.

It was sometime later that he felt he could safely Apparate without being detected, and he did so.

There he stood, outside the gates of Hogwarts. He pressed his face to the gates and breathed in deeply.

_Home_. The smell of the end of summer, the fresh cut lawn, the lake—a feast, a day early—_home_.

He was finally home, and all of the running, the thoughts… it all just seemed like decades ago, now.

"Thank Merlin," said the face that appeared out of no where on the other side of the gate. "_Harry_."

Harry pushed open through the gate with one hand and fell into a hug from the man greeting him, Remus, and hugged him so hard with his one arm, the other holding Pufflyflit in his cloak, that they wobbled into the gate which resulted in the loud and very open slamming close of the huge wrought-iron gates, both officiating that Harry was home, safe, and back with Remus, just… _back_. "_Home_."

Remus held him close and thorough with both arms, squeezing his neck, and softly chuckling through his emotional, very quiet, nearly silent distressed murmurs of assurance, "You _are _home." And then, as if assuring himself, he quietly added. "You are home, and you're safe, Harry, and you'll stay that way." He covered them in Harry Potter's old invisibility cloak, and so they just stood there a lot longer, and Harry found himself unable to bring his feet and legs to move just yet, _safe and protected and back at home_, the one home he'd always had, that he would always _have_. He was back with Remus, just like that. He was sweaty, and dirty, had no idea what he looked like with his crazy beard that he barely noticed, now, and he knew he smelled awful, and he had cuts from running into branches and being lashed at by sharp leaves and flowers, but it didn't fucking matter. None of it fucking mattered, just that he was back, that he was back at Hogwarts with the people who cared most for him. He was back with Remus, who he had come to realize he cared the most for in the world, now, and he whispered so, shakily. No answer greeted him, but he understood why. He did get a long kiss, he assumed, pressed against the side of his head, though, and that was the best answer he could have gotten.

They didn't really pull away from each other. Remus just kept his left arm heavily around Harry's shoulders, tightly, as they silently walked up the grounds and to a part of the castle Harry had never even examined or walked through, taking their time with Harry's hurt and drained limbs, not speaking. He didn't care where they were going, really, as long as it was warm and he could eventually get some sort of shower and a very, very hot meal—something good and hearty but not something bloody. He'd seen too much blood, lately, and he couldn't stomach much else, now, at least not until after a couple of days worth of decent night's sleep. He'd lost weight. He knew it, and he knew Remus knew it, even through the thick of the cloak and the density of the dark night. His body still grumbled for the food, at night, when he was refusing himself sleep out of paranoia, but he was just so happy that he wouldn't have to do that anymore, and this nearly cured his desire for food at the same time it ignited his hunger. It was at this moment he realized just how truly tired he was, and not just physically. He was drained, completely drained, and he could barely see, even though his eyes were wide open. Yes, he had left on his own accord, but not foolishly. He'd been sending back information to the Order, and they'd known he was safe via Lucius's rare reporting to them. Safe, safe, safe was all that he could think, now, and he felt even safer when he was walking under the old covered courtyards of this building, this giant pillar of loyalty, still standing strong and tall and beautiful. These castle walls were lit with candles, and he could hear happy chatter from families, he figured, who were staying in the building, and it was so foreign to him that, with everything going on inside of him, and the amount of emotion he hadn't let himself feel for the past weeks, his eyes spilled hot tears that silently rolled down his cheeks and over his numb, chapped lips. That, on its own, was incredible, but he was in a state not to notice much else but the fact that he was tired, and hungry, and he needed to be wrapped in a warm blanket, tightly, in a dark room, in a comfortable bed, and left alone to sleep, to cocoon, hibernate, and begin the very long process he knew it was going to be until he could even begin to process...

Remus did not lead him to the doors, though, that were so cheerfully lit, that Harry could see through the blurry line of vision he had. Rather, he moved them around the side of the building, because he knew where he was going, and Harry could sense that. Remus had known he was going to show up. Harry had not told him. Harry had not spoken to him at all, once, since he had left. He had only spoken to Cornwell and Lucius, and the last he had silently stared at Cornwell, from an open window, for the first time since he'd left, he'd known he had gotten his message across, so silently. Perhaps Cornwell had known that that night would be _the_ night, which he didn't quite have the alertness to realize was why the door was unlocked for them, blindly, from inside, and why he was moved in, first, and then led, so slowly, down a long hallway until a room appeared before him, bright from behind a cracked door, secluded. Secluded was this room.

He entered it without stopping, because he couldn't have. The room overcame him. It was a warm room—it was lavish, something he hadn't seen in months—it was _beautiful_, and it smelled like—like Cornwell—and Draco—and Misses Malfoy and Dickie—like Remus and the Order, and it smelled like home, like cleanliness, like open windows and fans and rest of ease. His lips just parted open at the sight before him, and for some reason he found a more sudden appreciation of his ability to see, tears subsiding, to be able to take in something like this, its luxury and elegance and sense of grandeur, as if it were for the very first time. It was more than nice, but nice was the only word that he felt he could use, then. Just being back, safe, was overwhelming on its own, and as this ran through his brain, again, his sight was clouded, rightfully, and though his shoulders slouched, it was only with relief that no other place or smell could have brought him—a better place to come into could not have ever existed as perfectly as this one did. It was a homey room, not fancy and cold and impersonal. It was full of emotions and love and personal books and pillows and throws and fancy cloaks on the backs of chairs and a pair of shoes sitting beside a much smaller pair of tiny shoes by the door.

"Harry," softly brought him back, and with such concern and strict comfort, tone adjusted perfectly.

Harry managed a weak smile at the only waiting man in the room, who was approaching them with hands outstretched so softly, arms loose, but with urgency. He was not greeting Harry or waiting for him, he was coming to him, with hope, with such relief that he was there, and it was so clear, even to Harry's fuzzy sense of clarity.

Harry's trembling body was taken by his hands, too, so gently, and he was being moved, with utmost care, with real worry and joy, at the same time, as he was led to the nearest couch, and though he had never realized the ache that his body held within its confines, as he sunk into the cloud of comfort, his body cried, and he did, too, even more silently, and collapsed with their help. He just lay there, unwilling to help them help him move, as Cornwell wrapped a waiting blanket around Harry's shoulders, which was warmed, and Remus wrapped another one, a larger one, over the rest of Harry, and then more, so he was really just a giant human lump of blankets that they eased back into the pillows he hadn't realized must have been placed there for his not-so-surprising arrival.

"Just rest, Harry," he heard Remus softly sooth, from next to him, eyes closed. "Everything else can wait."

Harry didn't bother to argue or agree. With Remus's hand on his arm, he let his neck muscles go and his head fall into the softest pillows he'd ever known to exist—such comfort, like this, he hadn't had in his whole entire life, and while he was already so close to sleep, he felt something move within his coven of covers. Realization dawned on him, and while Remus and Cornwell both softly protested as he weakly wrestled the covers with his own limbs, Harry kept on, still with closed eyes, too exhausted to open them.

"What is it, Harry?"

Harry opened his cloak and let Pufflyflit out. He didn't move or open his eyes. He just let them see.

"_Pufflyflit_," Cornwell murmured, from somewhere distant to Harry, whose face was turned away from them, halfway asleep, and with such softness and sensitivity, which lead Harry to very sleepily begin belief in the idea of Draco having made mention of missing one little dragon named Pufflyflit. The worried sigh that came in result of Cornwell taking Puffyflit was no surprise, because the small thing was sick, and his ribs were very easily felt. He was fragile. He heard Cornwell saying the same thing, softly, to Remus, of him, and he wouldn't have protested that, either. His limbs were full of warmth and contentment and he just happily sighed his still-leaking tears into the pillow his head had sunken into. He was going to be okay. It was the first time he had been sure of this in months, maybe in the entire last year and a half. Coming home had never felt like this. He had never had this, and had he not gone away, weeks earlier, he wouldn't have known just what this was. _This _was his family.

Draco walked through the door to the quarters where Cornwell was residing. It hadn't occurred to him until Blaise had mentioned it, strangely, but Narcissa was staying with Cornwell and Dickie. Whilst Draco had realized she had formed a connection and bond with Dickie, the fact of her staying with them, at Hogwarts, hadn't really dawned on him, which was ridiculous the more he thought about it. She could have gone anywhere in the world, with Dumbledore's help. He knew that it was probably safest for her to be where Cornwell was, and safer for Dickie, too, to have a motherly figure watching after him all day. He wondered, though, when his mother and Cornwell had had a conversation enough to let it be decided that she stay with them. He'd thought to himself, on that way down to dinner, with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows furrowed, nose-thinned, watching his toes scrape over the top of his sandals and tromp over the grass in his passing wake. Yes, he'd thought, with interest, had it been a frank and invested conversation, "Narcissa, when the new year begins, the Order will relocate, which means you will need to, as well. Would you like to come along? I know you have an attachment with Dickie. Frankly, I'd like it very much if you were around to keep an eye on him," or something not nearly as simple as that, but sort of similar, or if it was something more subtle, like, "Gryffindor's quarters have ample room," and then just a glance? Or perhaps she had suggested it? Maybe Dumbledore? It was very strange to him, and he had every intention of asking and trying to figure that out. Getting a break from his normalcy, in Blaise, in the old Slytherin dungeons, in getting to know new dorm-mates, had really given him a chance, even in the short time, to realize just how magnificently opposite his private life had turned since the end of the sixth year. It was not going unnoticed, now, to him.

The first thing he noticed upon arrival, through the grand doors, down a dark lonely hallway that appeared to lead nowhere but a dead-end to anyone who didn't know what was lurking behind a simple Disguising charm, was the smell of turkey. He loved turkey. He hadn't had turkey in a long time, but he couldn't help but smile to himself, surprised, because turkey was exactly what he had the first night at home during the holidays. It smelled like the holidays, now, and looked it, too, which he quickly discovered as he exited the empty, grand foyer and veered off into the living room. He just stood there, stunned, pulling his other hand out of his other pocket, to take in the space before him. Yeah, it was chilly outside, but there was a fire going and everything! Not a normal fire, either, but a cozy one! The candles on the walls were lit, and a few were places around—he wanted to go over and just collapse into the couch and snuggle up, truth be told. It was the kind of atmosphere he had seen a few times as a child, the kind that he hadn't realized he'd reveled in, with memory, until he was confronted with it again. He almost wanted to cry, just because. It had been a long day, a long summer, and now there was turkey and fireplaces.

It was mostly quiet but the crackling, but he turned his ears on alert to listen for any sounds of Dickie, any sign of him, or Cornwell, or his mother or the sounds of utensils colliding with dishes. He heard soft laughter, that of a couple of people, or maybe more, so he slightly frowned. Guests? What had he expected, though? He hadn't had an actual dinner with Cornwell and his mother and Dickie in… well… since being at the Manor, actually—wait, what the fuck? Since when did he even have those kind of dinners in that context? He sighed and pushed away the little part of him that resented… well, everything, and, instead, moved through the living room, letting his eyes take it in, again—the warm couches, all of the pillows, and some of Dickie's wooden blocks on the floor, and his little blanket was laying on the side of one of the couches. It had a little fuzzy sheep attached to it, and he couldn't sleep without it anymore.

Draco moved from the living-room until he found the kitchen, and he just stood there for a second, with interest. Indeed, the only extra person there was Remus Lupin, and with red cheeks to match the glass of red-wine in his hand. It was a strange sight, actually, because there were a couple of bottles of wine on the center of the table, and the table was fully set—place-settings fancy, and there were really fancy goblets out. There was even a fancy red table-clothe and a festive setting of leaves and gourds and things surrounding the wine and wine glasses. In front of them sat a huge plate of cookies, and he smiled at the fact that they were almost gone and there was a small trail of cookie-crumbs dribbled across the table leading right to the place-setting of one happy Dickie, who was sitting in his high-chair—something old, very old, but beautifully engraved. It was the kind of furniture that was too expensive even for the filthy rich, clearly. It looked heavy and comfortable, and seemed comfortable, too, by its fancy padding.

The kitchen wasn't bright, but, in fact, he was surprised they were eating in there and not the dining room, but it was a pleasant surprise. It was so much more comfortable, here, and normal. As much as he had been accustomed to formal meals at the Malfoy dining room table, everyday for most of his life, he had come to love this setting, as well, because Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had often been like this.

"There you are," his mother said, fondly, and came walking out from behind one of the counters, tossing a clothe onto the countertop as if to signify she had just finished drying her hands. His attention immediately snapped to her, sort of stunned at the whole décor—it sure as hell hadn't been there earlier in the day. "You're late."

Draco frowned at her, as she reached for his hands, and he gave them to her, "I'm sorry," he admitted, shameful, but not concentrating on it, as she gave him a kiss on his cheek, smiling fondly at the little boy who was much taller than she was, now. He smiled back at her, softly, because hey, it was his mum, and she was happy, now, too. She dropped one of his hands and motioned him to come in, and while she returned to what she was doing before he walked in, he focused on the other people. Cornwell wasn't there, just Remus and Dickie—and they were great company, too, of course. Remus was obviously a bit tanked, and Draco wasn't sure what to make of that, but he fashioned a grin as the man stood up, quickly putting down his glass as if he could somehow pretend that it was not his own, and sobered.

Draco couldn't help the natural expression that took over his face, and it just stuck.

Remus tilted his head, then kind of laughed, too, at his own ridiculousness, "Well, then."

Draco shook his head, finally, and let out a small laugh, moving closer to him, and they sort of shook hands, randomly, in an affectionate way, and then Draco gave him a tiny little shove to sit back down in his chair and added, "Before you fall," as reason for giving him the push. Really, though, he circled right around the back of the gothic black chair and swooped right to the little boy who threw his arms up, like Draco had just pulled off the most amazing win of anything ever, and cheered.

"Draco!"

Draco laughed, eyes right on Dickie's, and no where else. He was sparkling, and he had cookie crumbs on his lips, and his small hand was patting his tummy, so Draco cocked an eyebrow at once, "How many cookies have you had?"

Dickie giggled at Draco and pressed his forehead to Draco's cheekbone, like he was ashamed and didn't want to answer, and Draco didn't mind. He sputtered an impressive answer of "three," that Draco had come to learn to decipher, and then held up his entire pale right hand, big eyes staring right into Draco's, like he swore on his whole entire tiny but gigantic and sweet soul that he was telling the truth.

"Yeah, maybe," Draco skeptically replied, and hugged him, and he smiled when Dickie casually wrapped his small arms right around Draco's shoulders, which still were cool from outside, and warmed them with just that tiny gesture, and he just stayed that way, even as Draco moved out from that side of the table so he could look at the two other adults—his mother was pulling something out of the oven, and Remus was looking on after her, being very unhelpful while he was telling her to be careful, leaning back against a counter with the wine-glass dangling between his fingers. He made for a sight, one which Draco would laugh at for a long time that night. "What were you guys laughing about in here?"

"We were just rehashing some old school memories," Remus chuckled. "Things from when we were all your age."

"It seems like such a long time ago, and it's more like rehashing old memories, period. I don't know about the school part!"

Remus gave a semi-shrug, not having looked away from Draco. He smiled, softly, "Have you gotten more settled, then?"

"Yeah," Draco answered, simply, shrugging, concentrating on looking down his shoulder at Dickie, who was looking up at him from his shoulder. He was content there, whereas he was usually wiggling to get away when Draco felt like carrying him around, because he was so cool, now, and could walk around on his own. Maybe it was that he was getting over the newness of that privilege or maybe he had just really missed Draco, already, like Draco had been missing him all day. He smelled so good, like baby soap, the Lavender kind his mother used on him when she bathed him or put lotion on him, the same kind she had made when Draco had been a boy. He'd recognized that smell anywhere. It was so soothing and wonderful, and so Draco found himself resting his cheek to the top of Dickie's head, just standing there with him and treasuring him. One day his legs would grow long, and his arms, and the rest of him, and Draco wouldn't be able to do this. He never had thought he'd ever been able to have this, never have another someone who shared blood with him, or even a parent, blood-or-not. There weren't many days that went by where he got over just how thankful he was for Dickie. Even if he was a baby, Draco felt not so alone in his family. Without him, Draco would have been someone else, now, someone less important to someone less awe-inspiring.

"He's sleepy," softly spoke his mother, startling Draco. He looked up to see that she had closed the oven and was now just watching them, contentedly, with a smile, not far from where Remus stood, also watching them.

"But wasn't he napping earlier?" Draco asked, frowning.

"Yes, but he's a toddler, love. His energy runs out more quickly than you'd think. He was running around outside, for awhile, with Cornwell, and I think that wiped him out. You know how tired he gets; he's just a little one. You slept all of the time when you were his age."

"Oh." Draco licked his bottom lip. "Well, can I put him to sleep when it's time? I won't get to do that, anymore, once school begins."

"Absolutely, just later," his mother said, softly, as she moved to him and softly cupped his upper arm and squeezed it, before rubbing Dickie's back, to which he responded to with a sleepy, knowing yawn. "I think he'll be just fine to stay up and have dinner with us."

Draco agreed, silently, and since he had been holding Dickie for a long enough time to feel better about not really having seen him, all day, he let his mother take him, with a grin, because she loved babies, apparently. She just loved Dickie, and he kind of laughed as she just took him toward the table, talking to him. Dickie was just gazing at her so happily, and slowly Draco's smile began to fade until he was unaware of how his face might appear and more aware of the ocean of emotions running through him so quickly he wasn't sure how to categorize them, and he realized that maybe it wasn't time to do that just yet in the first place.

Remus cleared his throat.

Draco blinked away from his trance on the floor and quickly asked, "What's for dinner? It smells good."

"Turkey," answered a different voice, one he had yet to hear, but was so very familiar, so he turned around to the archways that lead into the hallway on the other side of the kitchen that lead into the private studies and libraries and such. It was Cornwell, but he looked different, now, than he had earlier. He was clean-shaven. Gone was his flannel button-up, and, instead, he was wearing a plain gray t-shirt that had a bit of a v-neck to it, and his usually worn trousers were replaced with much newer black ones that had creases in them, therefore suggesting they had been ironed, which was blasphemous when it came to Cornwell, but, like usual, however, he was not wearing shoes.

Draco didn't even have to say anything, because his eyebrows said it all. He already missed the flannel.

Cornwell just gave him a look to not say a word about it, either.

Remus chuckled, happily, into his glass, and his wine bubbled in result, and then moved away from them to go toward the table and back to Narcissa and Dickie, because they were more entertaining than Cornwell and Draco, or just in a different way, at least, that he was better quipped to deal with when he had had a few. He was still laughing as he went, though, and sighing, and then laughing, again. Draco had no idea what this language of laughter meant, but something was going on, and he wasn't sure what to think. He felt so out of the loop for no reason at all, and he disliked it already. He made sure both Remus, his mother, and Dickie were out of listening distance, and then settled back against the cabinets, too, and folded his arms over his half brown and slate blue cardigan-covered chest and half over the simple white t-shirt under it, watching as Cornwell started to pull other things out of the other oven.

Cornwell turned, after a second, and then tossed Draco an oven-mitt, "Could you give me a hand with all of this?"

"Sure," Draco said, slowly, after he caught the thing against his chest, Seeker reflexes apparently still intact, and approached the oven and the colorful pots and pans inside. He stood beside his father and tried not to laugh or ask, well… anything. He pulled out a glass-covered casserole dish. After getting a whiff of it, and a glance through the glass cover, he hopefully asked, "What is this?"

"What?" Cornwell asked, looking at him, quickly, and then down and then up, alarmed. "What is what?"

Draco held up the dish between his two mitt-covered hands, "Do you know what this is?"

"Huh?" He seemed confused, probably because it was quite obvious to the both of them what the dish was. "I do. I made it."

"You made this," Draco repeated, but not as a question, just as a statement, stomach growling at the dish between his pot-holder covered hands. "You really made this."

"Yes, I did."

"You made my favorite food."

Cornwell squinted at him, but, at once, he seemed to suddenly understand what Draco was talking about. Draco was trying to understand that he had been made a special food. "Of course I did. It is my recipe, you know. Well, not mine, but my mother's, though I think I perfected it. You know."

"Yes, I'm quite aware, seeing as how, when you left, so did this magically delightful, epic, melt-in-my-mouth, favorite-food of mine from my palette, thanks! I haven't had this since I was thirteen. Holy…" he laughed, as he moved around him, eagerly, leaving him to get out the rest of the food, because, well, Draco had his favorite food, now, and Cornwell would just have to deal with it, and he did, laughing behind Draco's back quite softly, fondly, while Draco plopped the dish down on the marble counter, pulled the glass top off with the mitt, and grabbed the nearest fork. He dug right in, leaning right over the counter and shoveling the food into his mouth. He let it sit in his mouth for a moment, but when he swallowed it, he stood up perfectly straight and looked back at Cornwell.

Cornwell was smiling at him, stove open in front of him, food forgotten. "Good?"

Draco could only nod at him, because his mouth was full again. He was happy.

"When you're done stuffing your face with that, could you come help me with the rest of this?" Cornwell threw at him, so Draco stuffed his mouth full of the best, most delicious mashed potatoes to have ever existed—they were truly magical, and it was the only thing that had ever melted his soul warm when eating. No other mashed potatoes compared—it was just… just… Cornwell's mashed potatoes were like gold, whereas everyone else only ever made measly metal scraps—not even Hogwarts could have hoped to serve potatoes like his, no matter how expert the House Elves were. He would probably eat most of them, honestly. He was going to take about seven huge spoons of it, and then go back for seconds—everyone else could have something else. He wanted his mashed potatoes. He said goodbye to them, though, and went back to helping Cornwell.

They got everything transferred from the hot dishes into fancier, nicer ones that matched the table setting, and once everything was taken over, Cornwell gently squeezed Draco's shoulders, from behind, and moved him toward the table, to sit down, to relax, and so Draco obeyed, taking the seat right across from him. This was a feast, and it was amazing. He had never had a home-cooked feast, before, without the help of house-elves or Mrs. Weasley. Once upon a time, Cornwell had been a pretty damn fine cook, but this was too much, even for him! There were all sorts of things, too—little things, like little salads and such, and breads, but mostly Draco was just eying the potatoes, the stuffing, the gravy, and the turkey—and some greenery—oh, and the salad looked delicious. He grinned up at Cornwell, privately, and Cornwell just laughed back, so openly. He knew Draco was happy with this meal, and that seemed all that mattered to him. Suddenly Draco felt a lot better about their last conversation, even if he wasn't completely sated. He was okay for now.

"What is this, Cornwell?" Remus asked over the brim of his glass, of the food and the setup, as if just now noticing it for the first time.

"Thanksgiving," Draco answered for his father, without hesitating. "It's Thanksgiving."

Cornwell just pointed the tip of his glass at Draco, smiling so softly, nearly sweetly at him, and Draco kind of felt his cheeks warm, "Thanksgiving," he agreed, because, well, Cornwell had spent a couple of those elusive years of his disappearances from society and thus had taken to the feast. It was perfect, because Draco loved it, too, and had the first time he had smelled it. He hadn't had this exact feast in a long time, and it was then that it dawned on him.

"Is this for me?"

They all looked at him, and then both of his parents laughed with a youngness he hadn't seen in either of them since the beginning of the summer, and they laughed so fondly, Cornwell with his squinted, wrinkled dark eyes, and his mother with her light eyes bright, head tilted strangely at him.

"Of course it is," she answered, then, when no one else did, leaning over her empty plate a bit. "Why'd you think you were coming for dinner tonight? It's a special dinner for you, Draco, because you'll mostly be eating meals away from us, now, and we wanted you to know how much we'll miss you, and this is Cornwell's way of saying that we love you."

Draco drowned his laughter in his potatoes, not bothering to argue, even though he saw Cornwell shoot his mother a look, a brooding, not-fond one, though it was harmless. He loved his family; he just couldn't tell them how much. It wasn't proper, even still. There wasn't time for it. If he had belonged to any other family, he might have found time, but he could never express it, and had never truly been able to, and even with Cornwell and Dickie in his life, the harder it seemed to say. The more he seemed to learn to care for people, as the ins and outs of his daily life came and went, the harder it seemed to be to tell them just how much that caring had evolved.

When dinner concluded, Draco helped his mother with the dishes, and then he joined Cornwell, Remus, and Dickie in front of a fireplace in the main room. It was the only source of light, but a great and elaborate source that resonated all around the room and even behind objects that cast great shadows on the walls. He knew that he had to head back, and so he stood and said goodnight to Dickie, who was falling asleep on the floor, on a blanket, in front of the fireplace, with his special blankey, head propped on a pillow, next to his mother, who was stroking his hair as she looked into the fireplace. He kissed his mother on the cheek, and when she went to stand to walk him out, he told her just to stay, because Dickie was comfortable, and she did. He thought fondly of himself for coping with this situation and then turned to Remus and said his goodbyes, and, at last, to Cornwell, who had stood and disappeared.

Draco walked to the front room, and then to the entryway, and reached out for the door just as he heard Cornwell enter behind him. He opened the door and then looked back at his father, who was carrying something in his hands. It was a dish, one of colorful ones from the kitchen. He held it out for Draco, as he approached, with his left hand, and lifted a flannel over-coat off of a hook with his right, "It's cold out."

Draco glanced at the piece of cloth without disdain and took it with a willing hand, "Thanks," he managed, and pulled it on. Part of him was always mentally scoffing when he let himself give in to moments like these, but he was trying to grow out of that by letting himself evolve. He liked the way it felt, at the end of the day, to think about those moments, and feel like he had accomplished something on a self-reflective level, but even more than that, he liked knowing that taking something, like the over-shirt, without a snide remark, or even a smirk, from Cornwell, probably made Cornwell feel good. He thought this as he tugged the two sides together in front of his chest and looked down—it was a bit baggy, but it would keep him warm on the way back to the castle.

Cornwell smiled when Draco looked to him to say a final goodbye.

Draco was caught, but instead of ignoring the catch, he sheepishly grinned, "Look, I'm trying."

"I know," was all Cornwell replied with, and softly, as he tugged the shirt closed, a bit more, with his free hand, though Draco pointed at him, as if to tell him that he was an adult and didn't need the extra fatherly hand, and so Cornwell pulled his hand back, in surrender, and laughed aloud as he offered out the dish instead. "I thought you might like some of the leftovers in case you get hungry later. I put a charm on them, so they'll be good until about breakfast time, but you'll still have to warm it—a simple Warming Charm should do it."

Draco took the dish, slowly, touched. He knew he was pathetic, but it was a nice moment for him to have, "Thank-you," he replied, again, less stiffly, and itched at his cheek. "I'll see you…"

"Wednesday, if you'd like to come for dinner. Or during the weekend? Perhaps both?"

"Yeah," Draco agreed, distractedly, frowning down at his own reflection in the glass cover of the dish, the colors below it distorting the colors of his face and the visibly distorted parts of his red flannel over-shirt. "I… it's strange, that we'll be so close, but I won't be able to see you, or mum, or Dickie as much as I have this summer. I'll want to come visit."

"And you're welcome to, whenever. You know that," Cornwell said, softly, watching him with very intent eyes, that Draco could see in the mirror to their left, out of the corner of his eye. "It's just that Dumbledore thinks it best if you remain up at the school, like all of your classmates, too, whose families are here. It's best you maintain some familiarity."

"So much as changed, though, since I was last here…"

"For everyone, Draco," Cornwell softly reminded him, but firmly. "Whenever you need to come see Dickie, or your mum, do. Dumbledore would not have allowed the Family Quarters had he not known it was best for his students to be able to see their families more than they would had they stayed off of school grounds."

Draco nodded, casually, thinking this over while he stared idly at the dish, "I know."

"Is something on your mind?"

"Nothing more than usual, I guess."

"If you guess, then it must be true." A heavy silence settled. "Do you… want to stay and discuss it?"

"No," Draco said, and glanced up at Cornwell, strangely. "That was very… _diplomatic_ of you."

"You mean that in a negative way."

"I do, but I'm at least pacified knowing that you're not a complete stranger for noticing that I've noticed you're acting very strangely, but we can pretend I haven't. I assume you have your reasons, you always have."

Cornwell seemed pained.

Draco walked out the door, then, emotions high, "I'll see you later. Thank-you for dinner."

"Draco—"

"And the leftovers." He took a step backwards, making his exit, with slightly lowered eyes.

"Draco," was quietly insisted, but with an urgency, but perhaps slightly too late in the evening, as Draco did not stop. "Draco, wait a minute. I'm serious—I said _wait a moment_, Draco."

"Yes, my name is Draco." When Cornwell frowned, hard, and seemed very distressed, out of no where, alas, Draco felt liberated. "Tell him I miss him."


	18. Phantom Son

**Disclaimer**: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

**Spoilers: **I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

**Note:** Another ridiculously long chapter, but I'm in a ~*Harry Potter mood and just felt like writing a lot and got this out in a couple of days! Hope you enjoy! Er, and review. If at all possible. :/

**Somewhere Only We Know**

Chapter Eighteen

Phantom Son

Draco found it particularly hard to sleep that night. It was too cold, then it was too hot. The covers seemed to infuriate his limbs; he couldn't decide whether or not they were trying to strangle him or he was trying to strangle his frustrations out on them. He had closed his curtains, so he didn't really know what his new roommates were doing, but he could hear Blaise snoring very lightly from even behind the protection of his drawn velvet canopy sides. Turned out that, when he'd gotten back from dinner, Eli, Will, and Cory had pitched in to get Blaise the essentials. The shopkeeper had apparently foreseen that this might be a common occurrence, and he had packaged things together like extra sheets, pillowcases, comforter, and then a toothbrush and the like, and then basic clothing sets in another shop, like two pairs of pajama sets and a robe—black pajamas, they'd gotten him, and a green robe. They had gotten the cheapest packages, Eli admitted, but Blaise's face when they'd lugged over the different parts of the package had been priceless; it was like he had been given the MOST expensive things in the world. He'd been so thankful, and grateful, and Draco had never seen that side of Blaise before, starving for just the essentials to call his own.

Draco had decided he would try to pay them back when they were least expecting it. They hadn't known Blaise very long at all, had barely said two words to him, yet they had gone out of their way to pick up things for him, to help him. This kindness, he wondered, as he lay there and stared up at the swirling pool of black and gray pixels about him, would it show itself even more in the days to come? Between all houses, new and old students alike? He wasn't sure. All he did know was that he couldn't sleep, and there was some part of him that was enraged.

At last, Draco threw off his comforter, unimpressed with how intrusive it was, heavy, when he had been used to light covers, all summer, and old quilts, and then kicked his way out of his sheets. He didn't both to pull back his curtains from inside of the bed, just tumbled out from the bottom, over his trunk, and then stood, with his hands on his sides, in front of the trunk. It didn't seem any of his other roommates were awake, but they might have been behind their curtains, too, and at their desks, hidden away and unable to sleep. He sighed and sat down on the top of his trunk, heavily, and bent. He held his head in his hands and stared at the space between his bare feet, looking into the space's meaning between the two points. All this seemed to do was make him more uncomfortable, so he lifted his head up, and just as he let his head go, he heard a creak in the flooring over by the open window. He stared at the empty space.

Having been hidden away from the war, for the summer, he had been made aware, very clearly, what could be done in an attempt to gain access to Draco from a Death Eater's perspective. He was paranoid, but he couldn't wave it off as being unnecessary. Things were different, now, as he sat there, in a room full of unfamiliar sleeping compatriots whom he had a strange rite to protect. He just let his eyes stay in the direction of the window, just watching for anything suspicious.

The floorboard creaked, again, and Draco was instantly on his feet. Having lived in that dorm for the last six years, he damn well knew that the boards didn't creak from old age or shifting from the wind, regardless of if the window was open or not. Besides, they lived in the dungeons. Beneath the wood was stone, dirt, and nothing that would let some air through from the outside. He found himself circling behind the center heater, hands on the railing, just staring in the direction of the window. He wasn't scared, exactly, as he had made habit of sleeping with his wand and knew it was a grab of his wrist away. He didn't go for it, just yet, in case, well, maybe it all was his imagination.

Draco circled the heater slowly until he stood closer to the window. He abruptly stormed the few inches. At first he just lightly walked over the boards and nothing happened. Then he put his heels down and they made the same noise as he'd just heard more than twice. He kept his eyes up, looking at all of the empty space before him, right hand out to his right, just in case there was something there, and left hand finally grabbing for his wand. He closed the window with his right hand, pointing his wand out into the room.

"Please, Gods, tell me I'm not the only one hearing creaking footsteps," Eli murmured from a distant place behind a curtain, and then his head peeked out, and that was all. Draco held his hand up, for silence, pointing his wand around. Will's head appeared, shortly after, from his own bed. He, however, crawled out, too, and joined Draco, following his careful lead, just silently looking around.

"I did hear it," Will told Eli, quietly, and Draco nodded at them, like to say he had, too, and there was potentially someone standing near any one of them. As if this had suddenly occurred to Eli, he jumped out of his bed, with his hand in hand, and hurried close to Will and Eli, because, hey, being in a large group was always safer, right? God, Draco hoped so. Not that standing together would be safe, but, soon enough, they had awoken the rest of their roommates, including a sleepy Blaise, but he just stood against the wall behind Draco, who still stood with his wand out. They were just facing down the barrel of an empty room of space, but it didn't feel empty, really. He wondered if, perhaps, it was just natural to feel this way. The summer had been rough on all of them, and staying in a new place, with new people, may have made them all be on edge, but they still stood there, unsure, close together, and with their backs to a cold stone wall, huddled together with Draco in front of them.

After a couple of minutes had passed of silence, unable to speak just yet, Draco went to lower his wand and say that maybe it was just them being paranoid, but there was a swoosh of a curtain to the left of the bed across the room—Eli's bed—as if someone had tripped over the bottom part of it, and it sounded like someone did, too. All at once, every single one of Draco's roommates positioned themselves in the complete opposite direction, all having gasped or said, "What the bloody fuck fuck!" or "WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?" Not stand there like bloody fools, Draco thought, but he was torn between the rest of the group and the motion of the curtain. He stupidly ran forward, between the beds, and wildly spun his hands and feet about. After all, if it had been someone trying to harm them, they would have already done so. That didn't exactly pacify Draco, however.

And then it went, like boots thudding across the wood floors, and the window BOOMED open. Draco had taken off after the sound, grasping his hands out. He caught something, and it shocked him. He almost forgot to hang on. He pulled and tugged, and with the help of Will, who bravely joined his effort, and then everyone else, a struggle closed off of mystery when struggling sounds were finally made from someone other than one of the Slytherins in the room.

The group didn't really say anything, just tackled the figure down, and then Draco yanked. Off came a cloak and there, panting, held down by many pairs of hands and a few dirty fingernails, was... "_Longbottom_?" Draco cried out, infuriated, and then threw his hands off of the tall oaf at once. He threw himself back onto the floor, panting, too, from the struggle, and since Blaise had given the okay to let go of their prisoner, the other roommates cautiously heeded.

"Longbottom," Draco just sighed at the ceiling of the dungeons. "What in the hell are you doing here?" He sat up with his help of his hands, knees pulled up and bent loosely. Longbottom, too, was sitting up, now with his wand held out. The man looked clueless as to his own answer, silent, and staring at him, so Draco just returned the stare, then regained composure and fastened himself up, brushing off his robes. He clambered to his feet and then pointed his wand at the tall mess of limbs before him. "How did you get in here? There are—there are wards! Special ones! What—and an i_nvisibility cloak_? Where did you_ get _this?" He had seen Longbottom twice since Potter had pulled the Disappearing card. He was part of the Order. This, however, was completely unexpected and needed explanation. Really, no one could be trusted, not even upstanding Neville Longbottom.

Neville sighed and lowered his wand, "Malfoy, I'm not here to do any damage. I was sent to seek you out, but before I could Show myself to you, you were already standing there with your wand out--"

Draco held his hand down, and he swore that he heard Blaise gasp, because Neville took it, after pocketing his wand, and then Draco helped him to his feet, frustrated but relieved, "Well there were fifty bloody other ways you could have shown yourself before we got to that point, Longbottom! I could have killed you! Any of us could have—you all right, tripped on the curtain?"

"Yeah," Neville said, because he was carefully taking care to putting weight on his foot.

"Typical," Draco chided under his breath, just because he could.

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Neville returned, and then pulled an envelope from his pocket. "This is for you."

Draco took it, wordlessly, his wand tucked under his arm.

"Who in their BLOODY RIGHT MIND sent you for Draco at _three in the morning_? Via _window_? During _war_? In an—Invisibility Cloak? Hi—Eli, by the way," introduced Eli, of himself, to Neville, and then Neville suddenly realized, like for the first time, that he was in the Slytherin dorm and surrounded by people that he did not know for the most part.

While the others were introducing themselves, and vice versa, Draco turned away from them, though Blaise stayed close by. He looked back over his shoulder at Neville, who did not seem one bit comfortable where he stood. He hated the dungeons enough, that was for damn sure. Potions had always left Longbottom nearly pissing his pants, and he had always looked uncomfortable, even more-so than usual, on his trips to and from the Potions classroom. Being here was probably unpleasant for him. He and Draco would never be friends, but they could be decent, Draco had come to force himself to acknowledge. Longbottom cared about people, about Potter, about his friends. They hadn't exactly gotten along at the Order meetings, when they'd met up—anything but, actually—but knowing that they were on the same side gave them a bit of leniency with each other.

Talking with the others, and explaining who he was, Neville didn't seem to need to directly address Draco, at least not yet, so Draco stepped further away from Blaise and concentrated on the envelope. He turned it over; it hadn't been sealed to a close. He pulled the flap out of the slot and pulled out a letter, only just to the top part of the envelope, as the parchment wasn't closed and wasn't very big.

_Report to the headquarters at once; attack is underway. We need you here._

_Follow Neville back under the cloak._

_Immediately._

_Lupin_

Draco considered his handwriting: it was Lupin's, he'd seen it enough times to know it. He knew they had been plotting possible attack and defense maps for tonight, from earlier, but they often did that and no attacks happened in the night. It was in the early morning hours now, which was rather unlike the Death Eaters to do. But, on all attack nights, at least back at Grimmauld Place, Draco had always been there to man-down and act as the go-between from one location to another. He was ordered to stay out of direct battle, and while he hadn't liked that at first, he had eventually come to realize that his position was just as important. If a message didn't get from, say, his cousin Tonks to Cornwell, or Moody to Lupin, it could be a disaster.

This situation was a disaster. What was he going to say to his roommates? Fuck him, if only Longbottom had just Shown himself, at first, none of this would have happened. The jackass could have just said, "Malfoy, it's Longbottom. Order business, let's go," but no. He sighed, quietly, thinking of a plan of action, whilst he shoved the letter back into the envelope. He tossed it out into the air in front of him, and, as all of these letters did, it disappeared with a "pop" and was sent straight back to Lupin, so Lupin would know that he got it under his own accord, as it was charmed to do that. It was clever, the spells they were coming up with, what kind of things came out of desperation and sheer boredom, out of paranoia and fear, as well.

Deciding that enough time had already been wasted, he turned around and interrupted the conversation at hand, grabbing onto Neville's upper arm and giving him a tug towards the window. He faced his confused roommates and just held out his free hand, unsure of what to say. First, as Longbottom pulled open the window, what came out was, "You just have to trust me—stay in here, don't leave the dorm. The windows and wards will protect you: Longbottom was just allowed past them because he had to deliver me a message—urgent news from my family, my—my mother is gravely ill."

"Oy, Malfoy, even I'm not stupid enough to fall for that," Blaise said and shook his head, and then turned his head to look at the roommates. Draco almost hexed him, but he decided to let Blaise have a go, to see what he said. "It's probably got something to do with the Ministry or his father," he was explaining, and whilst they seemed hard-up to believe him, concerned, perhaps they were too sleepy to see through his next words. "Longbottom worked in the Ministry over the summer; he has special access through the wards for the school year."

"Why'd he come in through the window, then?" Will asked, crossing his arms, eyes fixed to Blaise.

"Mate, mate," Blaise laughed, and then sighed, and then laughed again, like it was so amusing, "let me _explain_ to you a little bit about what _would_ have happened if _Neville Longbottom_ had tried to enter the proper way..."

Draco grinned, fully, once they were up and out of the window, impressed with Blaise's cover. Blaise obviously knew it had nothing to do with the Ministry, or his father, but their roommates just had no idea—the Order, it wouldn't even make sense to them. He closed the windows, Longbottom sealed off the wards, and then they covered up with the cloak, immediately. Draco didn't ask questions about it; did he really need to? He cast a silencing spell around the space outside of the cloak, as they ran across the wet grass—it did not feel good on bare-feet, and Longbottom was no more dressed than he was. He did have a special way of knowing when a message needed to be delivered—he had a chain that he wore around his neck which woke him when he slept; it had a way of alerting him during pretty much any possible situation. He must have hopped right up, as he was in plaid pajamas, too, and bare-foot, and made his way into the Order headquarters which, as a Gryffindor, he was not far from. Neville was privy to the same information Draco was; the likes of a lot of the other Order members did not have knowledge of.

"Where's the attack?"

"I didn't get the details," Neville hurried as they skidded into an invisible doorway of a seemingly ordinary castle wall. They walked right through it and into a dirty, tiny walkway of which was very wide by very short, and they both had to duck to get through it: everyone did. Neville pulled off the cloak and then it, too, made the same sound as the popping of one of the Order letters. It must have gone right back to Lupin, or whomever had sent that. Draco hadn't known they'd had THAT in their arsenal; would have been nice to know. However, it was obviously far to precious to have sent anyone to use in battles. Longbottom was trusted to use it: that spoke volumes. "Golly, my feet are cold."

"Mine too," Draco said, behind him, as they turned a corner and ran nearly directly into two Weasleys, whom they'd both heard coming from the direction. They were on their way out, and Draco and Longbottom were on their ways in. There was no time, Draco knew, for sneers or glares, but rather a quick share of information, offered by Ron, and a Weasley twin saying they were headed into the forest to meet with a Centaur, which Draco took to mean that a fruit of their labor had paid off. They'd been working on centaur spies for over a month, and Draco had been involved in the same negotiations as the two Weasley's had. Draco always gave credit where credit was due: whatever he'd thought of Ron Weasley leading up to the war, well... he had changed, too. He was a good leader, didn't whine, any longer, or complain. He didn't snip, overreact, or throw fits. He worked hard. And it showed on his face like it did on Draco's, in circles under his eyes and shadows under his drawn cheeks.

"Neville, come with us," said Fred Weasley, and Neville didn't seem surprised by having been asked along, as he, too, had a place in cracking centaurs for information. "Malfoy, Lupin said Cornwell left his office wards down for you. You're to use his office and stay there, as the Floo is open—secured, but open, and no one else can control them but you, apparently—blood magic or something about blood, said Lupin. Everyone else is on their way; Ginny's been sent off to collect the rest of us. Good luck, Malfoy."

"Good luck," Draco threw back at them, walking backwards, as was George, in the opposite direction. They threw up their hands, as if to say they meant it, and then the group ran around a corner, and Draco ran around his. He ran through the low tunnels, being careful not to trip or stub a toe, as that would distract him, until he ran up a flight of stairs that were threatening to come undone under his very feet, and threw open a door into the Order's headquarters, where he had stood, earlier, amongst Lupin and other members. It was full chaos. Letters were popping in and out, and just as Draco moved out the doorway, two members went by him and down into the tunnels to get out, obviously on a mission.

Draco didn't have time to stare at the uproar. As sickening as it was, when an attack was in full force, it was a tense situation, but it was exciting. There was a rush of chemical infatuation about it that left his pulse pounding, his stomach churning, and his heart thudding so loud he could hear it in his ears. Everyone had a job to do. Lupin was calling off orders left and right, letters popping in and out of his hands which he glanced at, each time, to make sure he had gotten through to whom he had needed to, and then, after he was done with them, they disappeared, too, and Draco had no idea where they went after that—perhaps into official Order files or something of the sort.

Draco darted, twice, to not be hit by someone in a rush, but the dart, each time, was returned. He made his way to Lupin, who, when he saw him, grabbed him by the shoulder, "Took you long enough, Malfoy! Goddamn, you're slow when I need you—get in the office, no one can control the Floo but you, and it'll open as soon as you go in." It suddenly made sense, what George had meant—"blood magic," as in, really, it was just that the Gryffindor office, of which was attached to Cornwell's office, was only accessible to even be seen by Draco or Dickie, as they were of his blood. "You'll be _expecting_ four visits within five minutes—Arabella Figg, Martin Rich, Allan Rooney, and Cornwell. You know what to do after that." Oh, sure he did: play it by ear and not have a panic attack about the thought of not getting one person's message to the next person. He just nearly flew out of Lupin's reach, as Lupin pushed him in the right direction, although not meanly, just for him to go, because he was needed. Draco grabbed the map and run-down labeled "Draco" off of the nearest wall, one of only about fifteen or so that was left, in his right hand, without looking at it just yet, and went off in an entirely different direction than anyone else at a run. He had the sense that if he wasn't there within five seconds, everything would go terribly wrong. Sure, he wasn't fighting battles, but he essentially linked one battle's success, failure, or message, to another, and in situations like tonight, when, as according to the map, there were multiple locations, they needed him.

Draco made it to Cornwell's Order office, the fake one, one that he used for everyone else, and then to the secret passageway. He ran down those pristine, lit halls, until he barged into the office that Cornwell had inherited, and not by choice. As soon as he entered, the room lit itself right up, from the dark. He closed the door behind him, threw his wand-held hand up in the direction of the fireplace and lit it. Thing was, along with those clever inventions, had come some useful hacks for the Floo network that the Ministry had never let gone through. People wouldn't be able to see where he was, when they contacted him, and they didn't have to contact him through a fireplace. It was basically just them relaying messages via their wands, like microphones, sometimes twenty at a time, or five at a time, and sometimes someone would drop by. They couldn't drop by and see where Draco was, when he was in Gryffindor's office, because they weren't physically able to _see_ it, only Draco. Therefore, if they physically came in one Floo, they were bewitched to see Cornwell's general-use office and would be redirected to the main Order room via Draco. He was basically the controls between battles—he was like... like an air-traffic controller or a Portkey controller, someone who had to do all of the work to get one message to someone else for the outcome to be successful.

Draco was pretty impressed with the setup that awaited him. Someone had put thought into this. Back at Grimmauld, this had been much easier. He'd had his area, in front of the Fireplace, with a desk. There was a small table, here, now, and an old big, high-backed chair. It was beautiful, quite frankly, the scene before him in front of the fire. And sitting on top of the desk, he saw, as he slid into the chair, quickly, as to not waste time, was a quill and parchment, as he always needed a shit-load of that to keep track of things, and sometimes to waste time when no one came through for awhile.

"Draco, are you there?"

Draco looked up into the fire. There was no one, just a voice. He knew everyone's voices, by now—well, almost everyone's. He still had trouble with those who were new to the Order, or those whom weren't part of the Inner circle, as there were a lot. He thought he pretty much had everyone down, though, "Arthur, this is Draco," Draco confirmed, quickly.

"Excellent—need back-up on Flamini Avenue—there are five more than we expected."

Draco looked at the enchanted list on the paper in front of him—hmm, so Cornwell, most likely, had seen to it that Draco's botched bewitching jobs had come back to Hogwarts with him? Sitting there, now, on the top of the parchment, was a list of all of the Order members in different columns. The first column was of who was in battle, one was of whom was available for battle, who had not been sent, etc.. It was very helpful when back-up was needed. His eyes grazed over the picture. "Do you need Defense, Offense? Ah! Moody's in, I'll send him. Elsie Dittle and Martin Munn, as well."

"Aye," was all he got back, and Draco crossed off Moody's name with his quill, as well as the others. Their names disappeared, at once, on the parchment, from the "available" list which meant they had just been ordered off to assist Arthur Weasley via letter. Letters popped back to Draco, on the desk, which meant the three were on their way, and when Draco let the letters drop into thin air, it, too, they went to that lovely place where all of the letters went, wherever that was.

Draco sat back and inhaled deeply, getting a hold of himself. The first one of the night was always the most nerve-wracking. He knew he'd fall into the groove, again. He just felt really badly about not having gotten there more quickly. He mentally cursed Longbottom, again, and then jumped when he saw Longbottom appear in the fire right before him in the fireplace, Luna Lovegood using him as a crutch. Longbottom didn't even have to say anything, because Draco already had crossed her name off and sent her on to the Hospital Wing.

Neville disappeared as fast as he had appeared.

"Hello?"

Draco smiled at the new arrival, "Misses Figg," he greeted her as she stood from a chair.

"These are for Arthur—names of compromised Centaurs who may be in danger on Flamini—get them to him as soon as possible. They come via Neville, Ron, and George."

"Done," was all Draco said, after she handed the letter to him. She disappeared, back into her quaint little home, seemingly nervous and tense, because, well, who wasn't? Draco circled Arthur's name, as he always did to a name when something had to be sent to them, and then tossed the letter into the fire in front of him. It didn't start to burn, just disappeared and likely into Arthur Weasley's pocket. He would be alerted only by his wand burning. It was some pretty sick networking, if Draco did say so himself. All he knew was that Cornwell, Lupin, and many within the Core circle or CoreOr, as they called it, "Core Order," circle had been the ones to perfect and hack it into oblivion, and it damn well worked like a charm—a goddamn good charm!

And so Draco's early morning went, until, alas, the "in" list started to fill, and he knew that the battle was over. He never knew if it was won or not, because he always had so much conflicting information. Usually, he could get an update from someone, but now, so far away from everyone else, that was a little hard. He had asked, a few times, how things were going, and gotten meager replies. And then the second time it had ever happened, it did: in came a death, carried by Arthur Weasley—a young woman—PEG! PEG? PEG was dead? Oh, no.

Arthur sighed at Draco and placed her down on the floor he saw that was different than the floor that was actually there. He didn't say anything, because he, too, had been the one to bring Draco's first death. When a death came in, one of theirs or the Death Eater's, it was Draco who had to time-mark it, for the files, and fill out the paperwork. It was miserable, that long line drawn to the edge of the paper, followed by writing out the word "deceased." He didn't like it, but he did it. He sent her on to the Hospital Wing, as he was supposed to, and sent Arthur back to the main room of the Order headquarters, some few hundred feet way or more.

Draco sat back, and then, when he was sure that everyone was back in, and his lists were full, checked, double-checked, and triple-checked, he sealed off the morning's files with a signature, and all of the scribbles he'd written disappeared into the pages he'd written on. It was a little creepy, he had to admit, but it gave the events finality, closure. He put the quill back into the ink-pot and realized he hadn't put it down once for the last five hours. He sighed, then, sitting back and looking out one of the large windows up near the ceiling. It, indeed, was eight-o'clock. Morning had come; this hadn't been a pleasant battle. He had sent many of the Order to the Hospital Wing, and had even been directed by Poppy Pomfrey to distribute small vials of a mix of healing potions for those whom appeared to Draco with bad cuts, scrapes, scratches, and bruises, to get them through the battle. He'd distributed seven, which was a lot, considering most battles, there were barely, well, any intense injuries. Perhaps it was because the number of the Order was growing. At least, that was what Draco reasoned.

Cornwell appeared in the fireplace, in one last flame, and then it went right back out. He walked into the office, and he and Draco just looked at each other. Cornwell walked the couple of feet, face dirt-brown, robes tattered, and bleeding from his cheek—the reason Draco had been staring. His approach made Draco look up, and once he did, his heart knotting up, Cornwell held his face, then pushed it down so he could kiss the top of Draco's head, it seemed. He did, then pressed his uninjured cheek to his hair, while Draco just stared off at the fireplace, eyebrow cocked. Cornwell was silent, shaken, and unable to say anything, really. Draco just reveled in the fact that Cornwell was glad to be back with him, and vice versa.

"Think you can zap me off to the Hospital Wing?"

Draco looked up, eyes drooping with concern at once, "What? Are you—what's wrong?" He was too weak, or injured, to make it to the Hospital Wing himself? He had clearly already seen that Draco had sealed off the official files for the night. He had stayed, because he had been awaiting Cornwell. He had come, as Draco had expected. Cornwell's whereabouts had been a mystery all night. He had come to Draco, once, for a vial, before disappearing with a disparaging grimace in the process. Still, though, he just stepped back, staggering, and Draco found his own two feet just in time to embrace him tightly, with both arms, so he didn't fall. He turned right around, barefoot and hesitant, and sat his father down. He plopped down, heavily, and just looked back up at Draco, as if asking him for help, for he was far too tired to ask again—but it was something else. Something else was wrong with him, and it wasn't physical. It was like he had been dealt a very, very, very bad, painful blow, just mentally or strategically. Draco opted for the latter. He just nodded, then wrote a new file opening. It took a few seconds, during which Cornwell just stared at Draco's face, miserably, and lifted half of his lip in some sort of conversation he seemed to be having with himself.

Draco drew a cross next to Cornwell's name, and then he, too, disappeared in a pop. Now that everyone really was officially back, he shut down the Floo with a flick of his wand, as he was always asked to, and then sealed the parchment off for the night. He didn't stick around to examine the office, because it wasn't his to examine. He was too worried, anyway, and gutlessly anxious about the state of things. He hurried all of the way back down the tunnels and through rooms to find the rest of the Order, wishing, silently, that he could direct himself around as easily as he did with a quill for everyone else. He felt very distanced from everyone else, and he didn't like it in the slightest, especially in small tunnels no one really knew existed but three people, if that. He stopped running and looked in the opposite direction.

Not knowing what it was, Draco went back the way he came from. Suddenly he felt less concerned about getting to the Order than making sure that his mother and Dickie were all right. No, his mother did not fight in battle. All signs indicated to her probably sleeping soundly, same as Dickie, but the thought of them all alone, so distanced from everyone else, really, was overwhelming... in a bad way. He ran as fast as he could back through the tunnel, took a flight of stone steps three at a time, with his hands on the walls to support him as he went, back into Cornwell's office, then found his way through more passages and tunnels until he came into the residence. He ran to the Wing that they all stayed in and first went to his mother's room, but upon passing the grand living room, froze. He froze.

He backed up, slowly, and then very, very, very slowly let his eyes into the room, then his feet led him in. Dickie was sleeping on a small chaise lounge, thumb tucked into his mouth, wrapped in white blankets, and nothing was amiss. It was the presence of the other couch, in front of the fireplace, that had been turned away from the door, that caught his attention. He knew who it was before he even saw him. He walked up to the back of the couch and then peeked over the top and gasped. There was a man laying there, seemingly sound asleep, but he wasn't Judas Cliffdale. He had a rather generous black beard that looked to have been growing out for months, ghostly white, unhealthy skin, drawn cheeks, thick black eyebrows, full square lips, and black eyelashes that jetted out sharply. His nose looked chiseled, as did his jaw and cheekbones, especially because of how sunken in his cheekbones were. He didn't look at all familiar, until it became glaringly obvious that the last person he was expecting to be laying there, or anywhere that he knew, was the person laying there, with the layers and layers of white down comforters rising and falling with his very tangible heartbeat.

Draco stumbled away from the couch, unaware of what to do. His last instinct in the world was to wake him up. All he could do was run to find his mother, whom he found in the kitchen. She shrieked when she saw him, but he was already breathless, already angry, already happy, and already very confused. He didn't point or try to speak, just gave her a quick shake of his head and realized, in words, all too quickly, what was going on, and why that fellow out there on the couch had left him speechless, left him unable to do simple mind-work. He puffed off, "Judas is dead."

"What?"

"Harry—Harry's body's out there, it's back; that means Judas—his soul—it must—it must have been too weak, and he died, and so his soul died, and it needed its body back—I'm so—I'm so confused," he was saying, but she had taken whatever she was making off of the stove, turned the burner off, and was already rushing towards him, at a run, like she had to see for herself, because Draco could not have lied to her, breathless, and on the verge of confused tears, staring at her like that, so broken, and confused, and like he was on a really bad acid trip—not that, you know, she would have known what _that _was like or anything...

Draco left her to find her way back to—to... to them, and he quickly made his way out the proper way of the living quarters. He ran through the halls, and he had never run through the Hogwarts halls like this, especially not at nine or so in the morning, the sun coming up over and through the open windows and walls. He didn't run back to the Order. He ran to the Hospital Wing and threw himself into the doors, breathing harshly. He hadn't known what to think, what to feel; he only knew that Harry wasn't supposed to be Harry, that something had gone wrong—or so he thought. He just knew that he had to tell Cornwell, and so he did, because everyone looked over, including Cornwell, who seemed well and was tending to someone's bruise with a salve.

Cornwell went to scowl at whomever had just barged in, but then he stood, "What?"

"Harry—Harry," was all he said, and he motioned Cornwell to follow him, hands out.

"We didn't want to tell you--"

"No! No!" Draco interrupted him, voice booming over Cornwell's who, despite the fact that he thought he knew what Draco was freaking out about, perhaps sensed that there was something more. Draco was instinctual; he knew that one of them had died—either Harry's soul had been too weak and had died, and left behind had been his body, with Judas's soul, or it had been the other way around. He had no idea of knowing, now, except that Cornwell was holding his wrists still, trying to decipher all of the gibberish coming out of Draco's mouth, but then Draco's long fingers just found their ways to Cornwell's hands, and he clenched them, fingernails and all, and finally managed to speak clearly, but in the tiniest of hushed tones. "_His body is back_."

Cornwell stilled him further, so seriously, "_What_? How is that poss..."

Draco could have only nodded once, and he only did manage one nod, before they were both out the hospital door. Draco didn't try to explain on the way down, because Cornwell knew exactly what the possibility was—the likely possibility, at that. That Draco had come to find out, Harry's soul had been in far more risk than the soul of Judas, far more likely to easily give way and pass on, especially if his body was the weaker of the two, which, Harry had told him, it had been, which was why he had come back in Judas's body. It was all so confusing, but, soon enough, they ran into Lupin, and Ron, and Molly and Arthur Weasley, who clearly had been told something was up, probably via a frantic Narcissa Malfoy who had probably screamed or something of the sort, maybe something less dramatic, but Draco wasn't on to all of the subtle connections between old friends.

Draco was the first back into the living quarters, and then Cornwell pushed him back, and moved Narcissa away, who was now holding an awake Dickie in her arms, and Lupin held back the Weasleys and told them he would explain if they would just please calm down and let Cornwell inspect things. They didn't know what "things" were, but when Ron was struggling to get past Lupin, apparently having been told that Harry Potter, his best friend, was not dead, or was dead, now, possibly, Draco snapped, and he gave the Weasley a shove back into a wall and yelled at him to "stop it." Ron screamed back at him to get out of his face, which just resulted in a shoving match and Lupin breaking it up. But Ron returned to his parents, albeit confused, and Lupin started to talk to them.

Draco, meanwhile, found his way back into the living quarters, and no one had stopped him. Cornwell was on the other side of the couch, between it and the fireplace, on his knees, it seemed, that Draco could see. Draco finally stepped up to the couch and looked down, nervously. Cornwell had his hand on the whole side of Harry Potter's face, and was just looking at him. Sighing, because Potter, whether he was Harry or Judas, was still asleep, Draco bent down, slightly, and leaned against the couch, but Cornwell looked up at him, strangely, and then removed his hand. A head turned from the couch, and green eyes stared up at him.

They were transfixed.

Draco inhaled only through his nose, as he couldn't quite remember how to breath otherwise.

It was Potter. It really was. His face. His hair. His eyes. They hit Draco like a million metaphors that hatched bats in his stomach, full of anxiety and dread at the possibility of the complications. It was his face, his body, his eyes, but... but was it _him_? Draco couldn't process excitement until he was sure.

Draco stared down into the face below, which was extraordinarily handsome like he hadn't remembered, strong and confident, but vulnerable and so sick, weak. Eyes, though, were brilliantly alive, as they always had been. They were dull, now, but open half way, heavy and laden with tension. Draco tilted his head, as if he were staring at a robot, because that was how it seemed, due to the monstrous staring and confusion and blankness. He very well knew that his hopes were dying, here, and he suddenly felt as though he was going to be very, very, very sick. It was like that very first day of having heard Harry had been murdered, but fifty times worse.

And then the face below finally moved, eyes closed, and the lips twisted into a close-mouthed smile.

Draco pushed himself up, and hopefully croaked out, "_Potter_?"

The green eyes opened, and, for a couple of moments, they were both afraid.

"Yeah, it's me," replied back so quietly, groveling and husky in tone, in a voice that hadn't used or heard all summer. It shot through them all like a hot jet of water. Judas's voice had not sounded like this. This was Harry's voice, and it was soft. It was distant. It was sick. Hoarse. Possibly dying? It was not healthy.

Draco finally let out a breath, maybe a cry—well, no, mostly a really hard laugh.

Harry couldn't laugh—it was too much pain—and he was too weak. His smile faded, but kindly.

Draco tumbled over the side of the couch, and Cornwell gasped, already trying to pull him off, "Draco, NO; God, he's too weak, you fool! Draco!"

Draco didn't even care, he just growled, "Potter," and attacked him in a hug, not sure where the blankets ended and Harry Potter began, but he was sure there was enough padding to soften the blow. He couldn't... Potter... was... both... really there... and... also... really there. He tumbled off of Harry though, just as quickly, and into Cornwell, and Cornwell did give him a slight slap on the head, but then wrapped his left arm around Draco's shoulders and hugged him, both on their knees in front of the couch in front of the massive blanket man. Whatever he was, under that blanket, Draco knew he was malnourished, obviously, and very thin, worn, and tired, and he was already asleep again. He had no energy. No energy at all—his body, his body, Draco realized, was still just as weak as it had been. Was—did that... did that mean Potter... he could still? No. No, he _couldn't_ die; it wouldn't be just, not at all. It wouldn't be fair for how far the fight had come, for how far Harry had come.

Draco leaned his head in and rested it in the comforters. It sunk in a few inches.

A hand gently wrapped around the top of his head, and Draco clutched it. It was Potter's. _Glorious_.

"Sleep, Harry," Cornwell quietly cooed, and then murmured a spell, under his breath, that Draco could not have heard if he tried, and Harry's slightly confused face melted away into peaceful serenity again. "Come, Draco. I spelled him out of whatever head-space he's in only to make sure it was him. He's disoriented, it's best we let him wake up by himself and not with us around. He needs to acclimate himself. We've done all we can."

Draco just kept his head there. He knew Cornwell was right, that perhaps Harry wouldn't even remember this, by the way his eyes had just been so glazed and barely opened. Cornwell had probably forced him to wake, somehow, when he had first gone in, to see who he was, and would care deeply no matter what the outcome had been. But Cornwell could not have known what Draco was feeling inside. His hands stayed so carefully over Potter's, and Cornwell didn't know what that felt like, either. Draco had felt Judas's hands a million times, and had seem them, but this was Potter's hand, and Draco felt out his fingers, in his hair; they were so long, and gorgeous, but so thin. His palms were huge, and his skin was so soft. His knuckles felt a little rough, and so Draco relaxed into the comforters and rubbed his own fingertips over the callouses, like he could buff them. He didn't even know what to do. He knew Potter wasn't even awake now, probably hadn't felt anything at all but his own acknowledgment of being alive, and perhaps not having even known that he was back in his body, but he was, and it was _glorious_.

"Come, Draco," Cornwell murmured, softly, standing above him, and he gently soothed Draco's hand from Harry's, though he let Draco lift his hand and carefully put Harry's hand back where it had been in the white mountain of goose-feather down-comforters. Draco stood, so slowly, just staring downwards, then he looked at Cornwell, speechless, and Cornwell was, too. It occurred to Draco, then, that Cornwell had never known Harry in his physical body, not as a young adult. He had never seen Harry past the stages of Toddler-hood and in pictures, but never in person, and certainly not since he had jutted out features and angles and killer cheekbones. He was extraordinary, and Draco praised so mentally.

Cornwell placed his hands gently on Draco's shoulders and steered him out of the room, but not out towards the Weasleys, rather into the kitchen with Narcissa and Dickie, who was now in his high-chair, looking bored, unimpressed, and hungry, all the whilst Narcissa just hugged herself. She had been watching from the grand archway of the kitchen, watching Draco, watching Cornwell, watching the half-life of Harry Potter, possibly the luckiest man in death to have ever existed. She had seen him; he was no boy. He was a man, had a man's face, a man's honor. He was unlike Draco. Draco appeared so young before her, and Harry so old and pale. He would need a lot of time, time and patience, and a lot to eat. Mostly time. Care. Love. She knew so.

Narcissa took Draco from Cornwell, gently, and hugged him. Draco accepted. They all just stood there, in silence, for a couple of minutes, until Cornwell finally moved. He had to go be the ambassador, talk to the Weasley's. He had to figure out what this meant—they all did, especially Cornwell. This meant that, yes, Draco realized, and perhaps Cornwell did, too, because he paused, merely for a moment, as he viewed the couch from the side, that Judas had died. His soul had passed on. He had decided to let go. They could not blame him; he would be at peace, now, and with his mother and brother, but Harry's body had not gotten stronger. His soul had, perhaps, and his ability to fight through it, to hold on, to not let go, obviously, for he had been fighting the whole time. But it was a matter of how his body was going to respond. Would they be able to heal him the right way? If they hadn't been able to before, why would they be able to now? And then there was the matter of him having to be the one to fight the Dark Lord, to bring him down. They had to start all over again. They'd been nearing the end, but now Potter was... maybe in somewhat of a coma, weak, and not at peace about it, or maybe he was very much in peace, and liked it that way, liked being so close to the idea of passing on. But he was still there with them, at least, which meant he hadn't decided yet. He knew he couldn't go, that he had many things to do first.

"Draco," Narcissa said, gently, a couple of minutes later, as she led him towards the front rooms where neither was sure the Weasleys still were. They were. Narcissa looked at Draco, from Ron, once more. "Why don't you show Ron to the kitchen and put on a pot of tea for all of us? I think Arthur and Molly would like a bit of _something_ that makes sense right now." She looked from Draco to the Weasleys, who were just sitting together, all looking devastated, heartbroken, and happy at the same time. Stunned, really. She motioned Dickie along to Draco, though the tiny thing had been snuggling with Cornwell's arm, wanting affection, and Cornwell had been giving it. He seemed happy, maybe in a way that Draco was. He had never seen Harry Potter, really. Now that he had, when his baby fat had long since dropped and his features had popped out, all straight lines and instantly recognizable, it must have been quite an experience for him, too. Even he still seemed quietly amazed by having seen Harry with his own eyes.

Molly Weasley nodded her head in a roundabout way, and said, "Please," as she cried. "Tea would be good."

Draco just nodded, and motioned Ron to follow him, and hell froze over... because he did. Draco waited for him, and then they walked silently down the hall, ten feet between them, but in sync, and Dickie walked next to Draco, his tiny palm wrapped in the much larger one. They didn't say anything. What was there to say? Draco couldn't possibly know all of the things Ron was thinking, or feeling, and he hadn't an idea of what to even begin to think of saying. So he said nothing, as it was best that way around Weasleys, at least where Draco was involved. Why had his mother suggested he take Ron with him? Because Ron and Draco could commiserate together, silently, whilst Cornwell and Remus tried to explain to Arthur and Molly _why_ and _how_. Draco could more easily explain that to Ron, because Ron knew that most all things impossible were possible with Harry Potter.

Ron sat down in the kitchen, at the table, heavily, and stared out the window.

Draco lifted Dickie back into his high-chair, then looked at Ron, "Eggs?"

Weasley looked at him. There was nothing malicious, "What?"

"Would you like some eggs?" Draco asked, and then picked up the skillet, after having put the teapot on the stove. "You must be hungry." All Weasley did was nod, somehow, and Draco could appreciate the answer. Despite everything, it was morning, and he had been in battle. Ron was likely hungry, and Draco knew so. He wasn't exactly great at cooking, but he could manage some eggs, maybe see if there was any meat to add in it from the enchanted ice-box. He kept looking over to check on Dickie, too, but Dickie was just happy now that he had a couple of blocks to play with on his high-chair table. He dropped one.

"Draco," Dickie exclaimed sadly, looking down at it over the side of the chair.

Draco walked over and picked it up for him, then kissed him on the forehead, "Magic word?"

"Pwease and thants-yew?" Dickie hopefully asked, voice having gone up a couple of octaves.

Draco couldn't help his helpless laugh. He handed over the block, "_Good boy_, and you're welcome."

Ron sniffed, "I still have a hard time finding you human, Malfoy."

Draco looked at him, frankly, "Weasley, we'll never see eye to eye, but we can be civil. At least," he struggled, and then itched at the back of his neck, before making eye-contact Potter would be proud of. Really, he had respect for Weasley. Potter happened to be an added bonus, now, "I can be civil towards you and mean it. I know it may take more time for you to say the same, and that's justified. But I'll be around if you're ever ready."

"Cooking eggs and sausage."

Draco snorted at Ron's acceptance of the treaty, and affirmed, too, "Cooking eggs and sausage."

"My sister," Ron said, a few minutes later, over eggs, "I fear what her reaction will be."

Draco couldn't look up, could barely raise his head. He just answered, quietly, "Happy, no?"

"Ecstatic," came the reply, "but we _just_ got her to stop crying over his death, and now she'll start all over again."

Draco couldn't help but laugh, mouth full. He tilted his head up a bit to keep his mouth closed and all of the food in tact. He hadn't thought about it at all, but he had heard, sometime before, in the summer, the girl Weasley, Ginny or whatever he name was, crying and whining about Potter at that first Order meeting they had run into each other. Potter hadn't mentioned much about Ginny, about anyone, really, from his life, including Ron. Maybe that had gone along with his mission, to leave the things that hurt too much to talk about in the past as much as possible. And, as he swallowed a bite of eggs, he came to a horrible conclusion via a horrible thought: what if, now that Harry was Harry, and he was all in one piece, he was going to revert back to the person he had been before Draco, before the summer? He hadn't gone to the Malfoy Estate by choice; he'd been forced into Draco's life, and Draco had been forced upon him. There was no denying they had a bond, but how strong would it be, now, when there were friends to love him, and best-friends little sisters to sooth him and sympathize? Ron Weasley would always be Harry's best friend: Harry had said so. Where did that leave Draco?

God, he felt so sick for even thinking about it; how selfish, to think about where he fit into all of it!

"Bad bite of egg?"

"What?"

"You had a look on your face."

Draco was surprised he'd been looking, as realization dawned on him, "Oh, no—I... was just lost in my thoughts, I guess." Why not be honest? He pushed the thoughts away. After all, he had helped Potter as much as he had been able to. Potter had been a good friend to him, and Draco hoped the same could be said now about him from Harry's perspective. He felt himself to be on very uneven ground. He hadn't spoken to Potter in—Gods, way too long. Things had changed, he knew, and even more-so now that Potter didn't have to live quite the lie he had been living with Draco and his family, and Lupin, as is secret keepers. He had a family, the Weasleys. "You have to admit the eggs are pretty smashing though. I'm not too bad, huh?"

"I've had worse," was all Weasley replied with, after fighting with himself, clearly.

Draco couldn't help but laugh, then, sort of roughly, "Go on, Weasley. Get in a jab, for familiarity's sake."

Ron kind of smiled, then, and just shook his head and went back to his eggs, "_Ferret_."

Draco smiled, but sadly, as he watched Weasley enjoy his eggs, then looked out the window.

The three Weasleys stayed for a long time, mostly in the kitchen, drinking tea, and not around Harry and the living room where Draco had been sitting with his family the night before, after dinner. Draco lingered in the doorway a lot, though, looking out at the couch, watching the rise and fall of the mountain of down comforters, paranoid that Potter had stopped breathing ever now and again. He'd return to the table and have some tea, but then get back up, again—he'd make an excuse, like he was getting more tea, putting more tea on, going to the bathroom, getting some cookies, wanting to check the time—always something. Alas, he had Dickie in his arms and walked him across the living room to take him to his crib. He sung him a song, though very quietly, paranoid Weasley would somehow be listening and smirking at him for being "human" or not being an evil bastard—part of Draco was still very proud, especially when it came to Weasley—and then tucked him in with his blanket and parted ways. When he got into the hallway, nearest the living room, he got to his knees and crawled the twenty feet towards the couch and roaring fire. Hey, he could embrace his inner stealthiness.

He just gazed at Potter, for awhile, as he slept, on his knees, keen, fascinated. _Terrified_. He must have looked a sight, a nearly full-grown man, tall, on his knees, staring idly like a little boy waiting for Santa Claus to come. He wasn't willing Potter to wake, for he had to make that decision on his own; it wasn't Draco's make. No one could make Harry have the strength to come back but Harry, and Draco could only do what everyone else was going to be doing, and that was hoping. He found it easy to hope when it came to Potter, and perhaps more-so now because he really was looking into the actual face of Harry Potter, no longer Judas Cliffdale, from the closest view of it he'd ever had, free to acknowledge the depths and levels of his features. At the thought, he lowered his eyes to the floor; they hadn't HAD confirmation, yet, that Judas had passed on, but from what Draco knew, there was no other way. Perhaps he had not known everything, nor had anyone but Dumbledore; he was not sure.

"Potter," Draco whispered, then, close to his face, though the man was sleeping, and oblivious, and sick. He seemed to be light years away from where Draco resided, wanting to be closer, and even closer than closer. He wanted to press his nose to Potter's cheek, to make sure it was real, to finally feel how it would feel to be close to him, intimate in a non-intimate way: as friends, that was. As friends, yeah. Draco's nose sniffed with bitterness at the thought, then pushed it away. It wasn't about that; it had _never_ been about that. His eyes, though, just latched onto Potter's long, long dark eyelashes. They were beautiful, and looked so soft, and full. He forgot what he had been wanting to say, as he found himself intoxicatedly close, closer than he'd realized. Somehow, Potter smelled wonderful, like rain, and like freedom, and like being light-hearted, like lime-stone, and grass, and and peaches, too. Peach, like his coloring, his peach lips, and the peach tint in his cheeks...

Draco eyes fluttered to a close, as only the very most tip-top of his nose nuzzled the soft cheek.

Thrill stung his insides. Anticipation, and alert, and butterflies erupted magnificently inside of him. He opened his eyes, close, as he bravely pressed the side of his nose into the cove below Potter's cheekbone. He had a beard, yes, but it was soft, so soft, and didn't itch Draco's skin or make him quickly back away with alert. He just wanted to be close. He'd never been this close—he had never been as close to anyone, emotionally, as he had been with Potter. He prayed to God, then, as both of his eyes stared levelly with Potter's closed ones, that things not change and go back to how they had once been, despite all of the things Harry had said to him. Just in case that did happen, Draco wanted just to remember how close they had become, and how Potter smelled, so sweet. A man, especially one with a beard, and so completely angular and handsome, should not have smelled so sweet. But he did.

His skin was warm, and so soft, at least that Draco discovered upon having closed his eyes, now fully engaged in having nuzzled his cheek and nose to Potter's cheek and rested now in his shaggy unkempt hair. He hadn't an idea of how long it was—not long-long, just long-ish, and shaggy—but it was soft, and black, and it was Potter's.

Draco wanted more than anything to just pull Potter close, just to be close with him. He wasn't sure how he felt about Potter, now, other than just how excited he was that Potter was alive, and with him, with all of them. This feeling he had, of wanting to hold him close, to protect him, was more of a brotherly feeling, less of a best-friend feeling, or anything else, for that matter. He breathed deeply in from Potter's cheek, and then nuzzled again. His body lit up, once more, so happily, and his index fingertip snaked over Potter's thumb in the covers. He rested there, against the couch, somewhat on his knees and somewhat not, trying not to disturb the man's very heavy, heavy sleep. The man's very, very heavy _rest_.

Finding himself not wanting to leave his place against Potter's warm skin, the urge to pull Potter's arm around him chimed in his mind. He knew it was stupid, but his mind wandered sometimes. He kind of smiled to himself, at the thought, and then finally began to pull his magnetic cheek from Potter's. God, he was beautiful. Draco gently gazed over his face with grazing, generous, giving eyes, not taking anything from the view that he wouldn't have given back as best as his face could have, eyes searching every part of it. How close he had never been, never able to see the freckle under Potter's lip, or the beauty mark under the outer corner of his right eye that his glasses had always hid from view... or the shelf of his lips. He was truly exquisite; he was for a human being more than Draco, one like Ginny Weasley, who'd loved him always, or something of the sort—not that Draco had ever had a chance, or could have had a chance, but that was all right, as long as Potter stayed his friend. It would be enough. Maybe. Probably not, not once things got back to normal, when Potter could be around everyone and not have to keep secrets and pretend to be someone else.

Draco smiled, so sadly. It was like he was saying goodbye to what they'd had, their friendship as it had existed. It was a sad thing. Very sad for him, actually. He was feeling a mite depressed already. Preparing himself for the demise of their bond was wise. He knew they'd remain friends to an extent, but not like it had been before. How could things have stayed the same? They had both grown up so much even since that summer had began, since that first day Harry had shown up as Judas.

"Potter," Draco whispered once more, just watching him, still from very close, "I know it's very unlikely you're listening right now. I know you're sleeping very soundly, and I'm happy that you are. You deserve it." He bit himself back from saying how much he deserved it in order to tuck a lock of stray hair behind his ear, as it had been out of place whilst all of the rest of his hair had been pushed off of his face, his pretty skin.

"I just wanted to say..." He looked down, almost as if too embarrassed to say it even looking at Potter when he wasn't even conscious. His eyes flickered back up, though, not so bravely, and his lips twisted with a sick sadness—literally, he felt sick. "I don't really know what will happen, now, because you're back, but I missed you. Whatever does happen, or whatever gets said, I'm glad we had time to work out our differences, to become friends, even. Really good friends, at that. I've told you before, and I just want to say it again while I can: you're the best friend I've ever had. I just wanted to say that to you one more time and know that it won't fall on ears that don't care as much; you're my best friend." Potter was still sound asleep, not a hitch in his sleeping or breathing pattern, not in the way his chest rose and fell, not like the twitching pattern Draco's seem to have now.

"Truth is, you're... a... beautiful.... person," Draco said, and then kind of laughed at how ridiculous he sounded, but he knew he needed to get this out, now, while he could. "If it were another life, and things were different, well... things_ could_ be really different, _now_, but they won't be. I know part of you will care. Just know, in the future, and remember this somehow, maybe subconsciously, that I really, really, really, with all of my heart," he blurted out, so quickly, all of the sudden, but intensely, murmuring and staring at Potter's closed eyes, "love you _so _much. I know we joked, but I probably will have eleven-hundred cats, or house-elves, or mini-dragons, or something equally as ridiculous, and you'll have your wife, and your kids, and maybe some owls and a ridiculous exotic animal handed down to you by that _giant _man-giant who loves you, too—just... just don't forget _me_—I don't know, just remember who I am beneath all of that other stuff, beneath what I used to be in your eyes—like when it was two in the morning and we would just lay in bed and stare at each other and laugh—and I promise to remember that about you, too. Now that your body is back, you'll be expected to return to what your life was like... before me, before you decided to come to the Manor. I understand that. Just know that I will always be an owl away if you need me, if you can't take the Weasleys and their insufferable love for you, everyone falling all over you... when you need someone to verbally and emotionally harm you, don't hesitate..."

He sighed, then, so quietly, and pulled his face back a bit, feeling better that he had shared that, not sure if it was all of what had needed to be said, but it felt like he had said what he'd needed to. "Thanks for being a great friend, thanks for being supportive about—about... _everything_—and... _that_, and not judging me. I mostly thank you for helping me deal with Cornwell, because I hadn't dealt with that at all. Like I said, you're a great friend, and I like you for that." He held his breath, and when he was sure Potter was still sleeping, he let it go. "I love you, though." Shit, he'd said it the way he'd meant to, the way he'd needed to. "This is when it'd be good for you to wake up and say, "Malfoy, why do you have to go and ruin such an_ epic_ monologue to rival Hamlet's soliloquies with some poofy bullshit?" And then I'd laugh. And you'd say. "But I love you too. Just not that way." And then I'd laugh again and tell you Hamlet was a poof, and then you'd ask me how I even knew who Hamlet was, and then we'd laugh, and things would be normal again, and I wouldn't have just blurted out that," he leaned in, whispering, "_I love you_. I really don't know _how_ I love you, I just do. Perhaps I love you like a brother; I don't know, Potter. _I just don't know_. You need to pull through, though, because, regardless, you are like my brother, and you're part of whatever kind of family we have now—Lupin needs you, and Tonks, and Cornwell, and me, and Dickie, and even my mother—and all of the Weasleys. I know they're your family, but try not to forget the dysfunctional family I've shared with you this summer—we all love you, too. We all need you to come back, because we need you in our lives, so we can help you, build you up, take care of you... be good to you, because you deserve it, and even if you didn't, we care about you too much to just let you go."

Draco pulled himself away, after a few more seconds, and then just sat there and watched Harry sleep.

"Draco," Cornwell said, quietly, a few minutes later, from the kitchen archway, "leave him be."

Draco looked over, drawn from his thoughts in the fire, and murmured, "I can't just sit here with him?"

"No, not right now," Cornwell replied, but softly, and Draco understood: it wasn't fair to the Weasleys.

It wasn't long before the grand feast began, of which Draco missed. He and Ron were both kicked out of the private quarters eventually, and Draco had protested more than Ron had. Narcissa had done it for their sake, she'd said, but, really, it was probably for Harry's. When he awoke, he would need time to get his bearings, to try to deal with being back in his body. He needed to be concentrated on that, not on everyone hawking down around him.

Ron left, with his parents, and instead of going to the feast as he'd promised his mother, Draco wound up sitting outside of the Quarter's doors, watching other students pass at the end of the long hall, going to their first classes. They couldn't see him, because no one went in this wing, just always passed it. There were magical illusions about this wing, and he appreciated them. It was easy to relax, here, even in the hall, even on the cold stone floor.

He didn't have a first class until noon, which really was only an hour away. An hour seemed like a long time, now, especially as the minutes dragged by. Draco thought about picking himself up to go to the Feast, but it almost didn't feel worth it. He didn't want to go back in, or back to his dorm, or to the Feast. He wanted to just pause is life and sit and meditate on everything. He needed some perspective, too. He hadn't been prepared to come back. So much was going on that he could no longer ignore.

The door pulled open, and Draco looked up, casually, head back against the cold stone.

Narcissa sighed, gently. She must have known he was sitting out there. She knew him too well, whereas she had once barely known him at all. She found his eyes, "Draco, you can not help him, and it's not going to help _you_ to worry, either. Please, darling," she insisted, and bent on her knees, so she was looking at him more closely. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Please go get ready for classes. Then you can come back, when they're over. Sleep here, if you wish—I'd like you to. But it hurts to watch you just sit here, knowing there's nothing you can do. If he does wake, we'll find you between classes, love. I promise." He didn't seem convinced, because he wasn't. "Cornwell and I have your schedule; you're my first priority, Draco. Because you are, you must just pretend to want to assume some familiarity—if not for you, then for me. Please, go to class."

Draco had only listened. She went back inside, and he finally stood up. He went in, said goodbye to her, then Dickie, who was loud and happy, completely oblivious that his screams of delight with his coloring book were lost to the sleeping ears of a man a room over or so. Passing the living room, he found that Harry was no longer there. They must have moved him into one of the Guest rooms, and Draco felt relieved at the thought, but also about how lonely it would feel if he did wake up and no one was there to talk to him, or tell him what had happened. He figured he had to trust his mother, trust Cornwell, trust Lupin. They said they would take care of it, and so they would. Really, there was nothing he could do.

In the back of his mind somewhere, it resonated that he had already given up his friendship with Harry.

Classes went by slowly. During Charms, even, he tuned out what was being said. Potions had been boring, all textbook work given by a temporary professor who had no idea what he was doing. Between the following classes, one of his electives, he waited to hear any news, lingering outside classroom doors until the classes were starting. When no word came, he could not help but be discouraged. Who knew WHEN Potter would wake? Hopefully he'd be roused sooner than later. For some reason, Draco couldn't imagine he would want to be in the state Potter was, not now, not when the Dark Lord was still alive and well, or alive and well-enough, that was.

"Dinner, Draco," Blaise said, quietly, that evening, as Draco sat at his desk, staring out his window and into the rainy grass grounds that his eyes were ground level with, it seemed. He looked away from the foggy, gray-ingrained window and found Blaise back amongst the candle-light, peeking around the end of his bed curtains. He hadn't set himself away, necessarily. He was distracted by what was going on, but not overly so, he thought. He had a lot to think about and very little to say. Perhaps Blaise wasn't used to that: Draco still wasn't.

"Sure," Draco agreed, and stood slowly. He pulled his cardigan from around the back of his chair and then straightened up some bits of parchment he'd had lying around. As his roommates walked out, Draco looked long and hard at the journal of stories sitting on his desk. He still hadn't read everything in it, for he had wanted to treasure each one and not take them for granted or devour them in a glutinous manner. He'd read one just a few minutes before, a short one, about a cup, and a spoon, and the different uses of sugar. It was fascinating what Potter had been able to come up with. But he was thinking too much about Harry Potter. In fact, it was all he thought about. So, instead of going to see his family, to catch up with the Order, which had called a meeting, he'd opted to stay here. He opted to attend dinner with Blaise and their new roommates instead of dining with the Order. Order was exactly what Draco needed in his life, especially if Potter was going to wake up and turn their friendship back to its original barely-existent state. It wasn't so far-fetched to think so. Their friendship had come out of necessity, not choice. He had his best friend, Weasley, and his family, and all of his old Gryffindor mates. What he and Draco had been through, well... they'd been through it.

Trailing some of his house-mates on the way to dinner, he was lost in thought, once more. It was broken only by a run-in, right outside the Great Hall, with a red-headed girl whose face had blossomed, and body, too, but was ruined by the indignant look of snobbery on it all of the time. She always looked like she had a problem with something... with everything. He had the idea she was a total bitch, but he didn't tell anyone so. Anyway, who would he have told in the first place without getting a beat down in some way or another? She had become his mortal enemy by just existing. He was naturally prone to people who were not held as saints, especially those who hadn't done a thing to deserve the titles. She always seemed in over her head; now was no exception.

Draco waited for her to speak, towering over her with a calm.

She finally did, face already red, eyebrows narrowed, "How could you keep that from us?"

Draco knew of what she spoke, but he didn't offer her any explanation. He was just reminded how she was a no-one to him. He did not care for the Weasleys as Potter did, perhaps as his mother feigned, now, or cared like Cornwell did. In fact, the Weasleys seemed rather coddled to Draco, and they always had. This girl, she had no manners, no sense of social dignity, and she proved so by reaching forward and tugging rather rudely at Draco's cardigan, for him to answer her. Instead, he pushed her hand away, rather forcefully, and drawled out each syllable with a tone not to be mistaken, at all, for friendly, "_Do not_ touch me, Weasley."

The young Weasley touched him, once more, the same way, clearly on the offensive. She was reminding him of Molly Weasley, because she, too, liked to round on people, often when she had no right to. When_ she _did it, it was kind and came from a good place. This one, this young one, just annoyed the hell out of him, and the last thing he felt he needed, right then, was this clueless brat. She rubbed him the wrong way by nature, and so he scowled at her, silently, while he, once more, removed her hand from his cardigan.

"How could you look at us—his best friend, our family, me, and not say anything? You're truly cold-hearted to have kept all of that from us—my whole family is _devastated_."

Draco didn't have time for this, and he didn't want to make a scene. His year of scenes had been last year. This year he just wanted to be under the radar, attend to his studies, and hopefully survive to see the end of his Hogwarts career, "Despite what you've been told, or what you believe transpired, I was under orders _not _to tell anyone. I wasn't even supposed to know, no one was, least of all you lot who would have probably outed him by just being around. Everyone knew who could have kept the secret, and we all did—you, however, attacking me, in public, no less, is just an example of why you couldn't have handled the _delicate situation_."

She wasn't listening, apparently, or just didn't want to hear the truth, "That's such an excuse! If you weren't supposed to know, but you found out, could you not have had the courtesy to share that information with us, the people who _actually_ care about him?"

Draco sighed. He stared at her for a few long seconds, like to make sure she was done, dead-panning, and when he was sure she was done, clearly looking for a fight now, he held up two hands—not in surrender, but in annoyance, like she needed to back herself away from him. Then he lowered them when he had the go ahead to reply, "If he had wanted you to know, you would have known. I'm sure, if nothing more than the fact that it was risky to tell you, he likely didn't bother to let you know because I'm sure, in his head, it was safer to keep your family away from what was going on; your family means the world to him, he wouldn't have wanted to put any of you in danger. Acceptable?"

"This isn't over, Malfoy, just because you think it is; you don't _know _what we've been through, and when Harry comes out of this and gets some perspective—"

"Right," Draco said, like he cared, with a prompt nod, and then followed her statement up immediately with one of his own, "because you know exactly what _we've_ been through." Her lips closed, by some miracle. Insufferable, self-centered bitch. "As in _my_ family, the Order, me... _Harry. _In fact,_ you_ have no _idea_ what he's been through, and if you have some intention of making him feel guilty for not having revealed who he was to people irrelevant to the plans, then I will do everything to stop you. I assure you that you have no idea what you're even _talking _about, _shocking_, and I won't hear anymore of it." He didn't add the part that told him to further insult her, because he didn't have the energy. "I wasn't an accomplice by choice, Weasley, but if you want the truth, it's better I was there with him and none of you. He wouldn't have made it through anything without _killing_ any of you."

"We're his _family_! How would you like it if—if—well, damnit, Malfoy, you don't _have_ any friends or family like we have him, but can't you put yourself in our shoes? How can you be so cold?"

Draco twitched to keep himself from taking that comment to a familiar and unpleasant place. All right, he could be civil with Ron, because Ron had done battle; Draco had seen him work and vice versa, and their parents were very nice people. He wasn't particularly keen on any of them, and that was never going to change. Change, clearly, had not happened on their end, regarding Draco, regarding his mother, and Draco was pretty sure Ginny Weasley was stupid enough to not have yet seen the nearly identical face of Cornwell's and attach the relation. She could have her delusions, her opinions, and he really didn't care. She crossed a line by talking about his family—like her family was one tenth as great as his! They may not have lived in a burrow, but his family was historic, they were loving, they were_ his_, and as much as she wouldn't want to admit it, Harry was part of Draco's family, now, too. He calmed himself, remembering that he didn't want to make a scene, and then looked away from her, clearing his throat, "I think we're done here. Is there anything else you want to pretend I'm to blame for?"

She turned around and stormed off, like the insolent brat she was.

Draco just stared at her retreat, lip lifted in utter dislike. He literally made an, "ugh," sound, then followed her, just ten times more gracefully, into the Great Hall. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was the Feast, the same feast he'd been delighted to have taken part in six times before. This feast didn't seem magical at all. Dumbledore stood, gave some speech, which, like usual, fell on Draco's deaf ears. Sometimes he thought Dumbledore spoke a language that he did not. Where had Dumbledore been, exactly? He knew Cornwell had been in contact with him multiple times, but no one else had, really. Also similar, he decided, to his natural distaste for the Weasley's, was the natural distaste for Dumbledore. Okay, Draco didn't need to become a totally different person and pretend he liked everyone; he did not. Why lie? He wouldn't go out of his way to keep the dislike alive, but he wasn't going to try and bridge it, either. He and Potter had bridged a bond from two different sides, and it wasn't based on who the other associated with. Draco respected Harry. That didn't mean he had to force himself into liking those he as naturally prone to dislike.

"I saw Weasley accosting you," Blaise said, as Draco sat down, looking over at the Gryffindor table with contempt. "Nicely handled."

"Gracias," Draco offered him, at ease, as he settled between Blaise and Cory. "What's that?"

"Picture of my family," Cory replied, and handed it to Draco who took it very gingerly, gently, and he made sure not so smudge the moving frame. It was a beautiful family, full, healthy, and probably from a year or two before. There was no look of desperation in their faces, no circles under their eyes. My, how times had changed. He looked from Cory's picture and back to him, then to the picture again. Cory had aged with the summer, and Draco frowned, but in a friendly way. He had once had many siblings, and from what he'd said when they'd all met for the first time, he only had a couple of brothers left.

To have lost so many of his family members, and not even that long ago... Draco's heart hurt for him. He turned more of his attention to watch Cory eat, and then offered, more privately, away from Blaise and the chattering house-mates, "They're beautiful. Did your dad give this to you?"

Cory nodded, then seemed to sense Draco's attentive tone, like he was listening, and if Cory wanted to say more, he could. So he did, "I visited my family up in the East Corridor after Potions. I was happy to get out of there for dinner, though. If I'm being honest, my da's terrible at cooking." He took a bite of potatoes and made a sound that sounded strangely like a whimper. He pointed his fork at his mouth, like to say he had made the right decision to come to the feast.

Draco laughed in a gentle way, and he carefully placed the picture down on the table above Cory's plate and anecdotally added, "My dad's a pretty good cook; my mom's learning, though, so I can relate somewhat. It's hit or miss."

Cory laughed after he swallowed his potatoes, "Lucius Malfoy, cooking? I don't know, Draco; I have a hard time picturing him cooking. No offense, but I can only imagine him cooking House Elves or something equally disturbing."

Draco smiled, then, after Cory looked away. Yeah, uh, he was going to have to work on that "dad" bit. He was going to have to remember that no one knew about Cornwell. He went to eating his own meal. He didn't really talk with anyone else, except for a casual "yeah" or a nod as he listened to one of his dorm-mates, since they were all sitting together. It was strange, because he found himself often glancing over at the Gryffindor table, as it was habit to do at the feast. There was no Harry Potter there, though. Instead there were strangers and familiar worn faces of young people he'd shared classes with. No one was eating with the vigor of the past, but somehow the spirit of the room seemed hopeful. It was hard to say it was optimistic, though. Even the Gryffindors ate with their shoulders slouched, especially all of Potter's old friends, young Order members. It was Ron who looked happiest, and Ginny who looked the most miserable.

A late entry made her way in a few minutes before the feast ended. As soon as she stepped into the room, Draco had practically felt the tension rise from the Gryffindor table. It was Granger, and she walked over to the table and sat down, albeit far away from whom she would have normally been sitting with... if she hadn't done whatever she had. Harry had never really spoken about what she'd done, but it really must have been something huge. Perhaps, if he'd been in a different situation, he would have been able to empathize with her, but he could not, not objectively. In fact, he could not even eat with her there. Harry did not hold contempt for people he loved, even when they did wrong things—in fact, he was a sucker. For him to have been so thoroughly furious, angered, and betrayed by her... it had to have been something enormous.

Who had let her come back? Dumbledore? Surely the man was out of his mind this time. Whatever had been done by her, it hadn't been pleasant, had maybe even gotten Harry killed, that Draco had surmised, and Ron hadn't been thrilled to see her at the funeral. No one had, and from what Draco had always seen, the Weasleys had been like a second family to Granger, as well. There was no sense of friendliness, now, especially judging by the way Ron was staring at her, apparently having lost his appetite. He, too, seemed furious, but so furious that he could not move. No one else seemed to be as angry, and it then occurred to Draco that, perhaps, no one else knew what she had done.

Draco found that his temper kept rising. He wanted to walk over to her and ask her what she was doing there, or maybe he just wanted to curse her, again. Dumbledore, he was a wise man: wise-enough. He trusted everyone. It was thick, Draco knew, for him, of all people, to be upset about Dumbledore giving Granger a second chance, but he strangely settled on the idea that he didn't really care. Where HAD Dumbledore been, anyway? He sure as hell hadn't been around any Order meetings, and from what Draco knew, Cornwell barely spoke to him. It was strange, that Dumbledore would back off the way he had. He had been the one to help with the soul-switching, or body-switching, or whatever the case had been, but after that, it was like he had given the lead for Cornwell to take, but slowly. Since he had taken reign, Dumbledore hadn't made a peep.

"I'm going to head back to the dorm," Draco said, then, after finishing the last of his potatoes.

Blaise glanced at him, mouth full of pudding, unabashedly, and nodded. He didn't attempt to speak.

Draco kind of laughed, suddenly, and clapped him on the back, "Don't choke with happiness."

Blaise gave him a thumbs-up, then his thumb went back onto his silver spoon and he dug in again.

Draco found his way to Order Headquarters, wondering why so many young Order members had been at the Feast instead of at the meeting. Had he not known better, he might have thought they'd all attended the Feast for the same reason. He took the long way, the way that led outside. He walked across the green grass. It was still sunny, as the sun had yet to start going down, and it seemed criminal, almost, that everyone else was inside. It smelled good, still like freshly cut grass and the lingering scents of the bloomed flowers on the trees. He would miss this, miss the summer. He had experienced it so little this last summer, having spent so much time pent up in different Manors and Estates, but he wouldn't have changed all of the experiences he'd had that summer, either. He walked slowly, nearly dragging his gray Converses through the dry green stalks of grass, until he came to an invisible door. He entered the dark hall. There were no windows. He sighed and followed the path to the main Order room.

He passed the offices of some higher-ups who maintained bigger things, like Simon Abbott, who took care of all of their Portkey needs. All he did all day was set up schedules and Portkeys for battles that even had a chance of taking place. He and Draco worked together, sometimes, because Draco would sometimes have Portkeys to distribute when he was doing his job from in front of a fireplace. He wasn't bitter about what he did. He knew it was important to the efforts, and he was still surprised that he, of all people, had been entrusted with the job. No one had even had any complaints when Cornwell had explained what Draco would be doing to them, and they trusted him to make sure messages were delivered. They never held back. He felt valued in the Order, now, like he actually was helping the cause. It was his father's cause, in some ways, and Potter's, but because of that, it was more-so his, inside, he felt, than it was theirs. He treasured them both more than he'd ever thought he could treasure _people_. Thinking of it, he couldn't help but roll his eyes at what his younger self would have thought, would he have seen Draco this way, or heard his thoughts, or felt what he felt. It was so strange, how he had changed over the last two years.

Draco entered the Main room. It was empty. He frowned, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He hadn't seen an empty ANYTHING, involving the Order... ever. His first thought was that maybe something had happened and there had been an attack and everyone had opted out, but when he heard footsteps coming down the hall, he thought better and turned to see who it was.

Remus Lupin grabbed a stack of parchment off of his desk, then looked up. He seemed caught off guard, just to see Draco silently standing there, in the middle of the room, "There you are—why didn't you come earlier?"

Draco only shrugged.

Remus frowned, then, and came a bit closer, "Were you at the Feast?"

"Yeah—where is everyone?"

"In the meeting," Remus said, immediately, and motioned Draco to come follow him, remembering suddenly, it seemed, that he he was being waited upon by the Order members to bring back these—oh, maps. "There's a room better suited for meetings in a room across from Cornwell's office—just a big room with a big table and lots of chairs," he explained as if Draco hadn't had a tour of the place, as Draco joined him, his hands back in his pockets and his eyes on the ground before them. "Everyone was wondering where you were."

Draco glanced at him, "No one wanted to make sure I was safe?" He couldn't help but laugh.

Remus smiled at him, "Cornwell assured us you were safe, just needed a break—said your mother insisted you go to the Feast, and he thought that was a good idea too." He glanced at Draco and saw him smile, very slightly, at the floor. "We sent Neville to check if you were in the Great Hall. You were."

"I wondered why he wasn't there when the rest of them were."

"_Them_?"

"Spare me the semantics; I've had a run-in with a Weasley, and now I remember who I am in their eyes."

Remus kind of laughed, like he wasn't surprised, "Well, we'll talk more about that later, after the meeting, but the reason _they_ are not here is because they weren't invited. It's just a meeting for the Core-Or, the top level. Only you and Neville were asked, because you play strategic roles; this information is more valuable for you to understand and know than it is for your classmates; your role is the one that probably requires the most trust. We all depend on you at some point to keep us safe and in the right direction." He glanced at Draco. "I thought you could use a bit of an ego boost."

Though he had chuckled to himself, Draco's eyebrows rose, from behind Remus, as he opened the door across from the door of Cornwell's office. It was noisy, at once. There was a discussion going on, something about a battle in Liverpool being imminent, and Cornwell was the one leading the discussion. He was standing while everyone else was sitting, and it often seemed to be this way. He seemed to be a visual person, not one who could just sit back and let everyone else dictate what needed to be done. He knew his place in what was going on—which was still unknown to about ninety-eight percent of the Order, but it didn't seem to matter. They were all really working for the same thing. Cornwell still remained a bit of a mystery to them.

"Here," Remus said, and handed the papers right off to Cornwell who was about three feet away.

Everyone was still talking, now, engaged in their conversation.

Draco closed the door behind him and smiled lightly when Cornwell looked up at him from flipping through the papers. He still seemed sick, pale, like he hadn't had any sleep. Draco had no place to tell him so, as, when he did, it fell on deaf ears. Cornwell probably couldn't sleep, even when he tried, and so, the seldom times Draco had seen him fall asleep in a chair, or while sitting on a sofa, he'd never let anyone wake him up. Treasured moments were sleep for Cornwell.

Cornwell came closer, and his hand was already on Draco's arm, "Hello," he said, softly, and something on his face changed. It seemed to switch out of Order-mode and into, "Oh, there's my slightly-estranged son who looks like a wounded puppy whose lost his best friend every time I see him," mode. Draco realized his own mistake: not feigning happiness. He tried to force on a cool smile, but then decided against it when Cornwell just kind of chuckled at the attempt. Instead of saying anything else, though, he surprised Draco with a light kiss on his cheek, and before Draco could be embarrassed, he sent Draco on his way to take a seat which was empty, on the side nearest the door, and so Draco went, nearly tripping over his feet at first. The thing was, Draco was having trouble dealing with all things Cornwell. Cornwell had so much on his shoulders, and Draco found he could not be upset that Cornwell had other things to focus on. He was just used to being around Cornwell, and seeing him all of the time, where, even in passing, Cornwell would ask him how he was doing, and... and, well, Draco was being self-centered, because there were far more important things for Cornwell to worry about.

"Oh, the beloved cousin finally decides to make an appearance," Tonks said, when she noticed him taking the seat next to her. "We thought you weren't going to show up."

Draco tried to think of a witty reply but, instead, just settled on a shrug and a quiet, "I wasn't going to."

His cousin frowned just slightly and asked, "Why not?" Concern twisted up in her eyes, and rather fondly.

"I'm having a bit of an existential crisis," was all Draco found he could reply with without going into detail.

Tonks rubbed his upper back, out of nowhere, and nodded so understandingly that it blew Draco's mind, "I think we all feel a bit like that now," she said, quietly. "Don't worry, things will be all right."

Draco turned his eyes to hers, without blinking, and posed the obvious question, "Will they be?"

"I've no idea."

"_Hopeful _doesn't work for our family," Draco told her. "It goes against our..." and then he trailed off.

Tonks raised an eyebrow, rather suspicious now, it seemed, "Our what?"

"Nothing," was all Draco replied, because he remembered... he was talking like a Malfoy. "Catch me up."

Tonks seemed to want to pursue the conversation, but then caught notice of their surroundings and obliged him in catching him up to speed while Cornwell was passing out pieces of parchment and Remus was passing out other pieces. They were handing out the assigned maps for tonight, so some maps were different than others, "Lucius has it on good authority that there'll be an attack in Liverpool tonight to rile the Death Eater troops—a bit like a reunion, really, all glamorous, Dark Marks lighting up the sky all over the place."

"Are there going to be attacks or is it just propaganda?" Draco asked, as he received his map, with his name on it, from Remus, who then flipped through the maps until he found the one for Tonks.

"Propaganda, we think," Remus answered, before Tonks could. "It's better to be prepared, though."

"Yeah, sure," Draco said, and glared at his map. No one else but Cornwell and Remus had a map like he did. His map showed all possible battle routes, whereas everyone else's maybe just showed one or two, their individual mission. Draco's was customized to see who would be where, when, and it was a mess of colors, names, and lines. He would have to do what he did every time and separate the map with a spell, so it was easier to read, easier to organize. That or he'd focus in on one by tracing his wand over the line of a mission's route.

After a couple of minutes of studying his map, a hand ruffled through his hair at the same time another hand reached over him and put a piece of paper down. It was a list of stops and visits Draco would be expecting, that night, in front of his fireplace. He didn't have to look up or turn to see whose hand was in his hair. It was Cornwell, and while everyone was busy looking at their assignments and talking to those they were paired with, that night, he leaned in down closer to Draco, hand on the table over his shoulder, to peer at Draco's map too. He smelled good, like Vanilla and home and Draco's childhood. He kind of breathed in through his nose as quietly as he could, to get a good, solid, and content scent memory going.

Cornwell's fingertip trailed a long red line, suddenly, and murmured, so no one else could hear, "This is where I'll be."

Draco never knew Cornwell's map or where he'd be—he'd always been privy to everyone else's information, but not Cornwell's, no one had. It was dangerous for no one to really know, aside from Remus, who was Cornwell's left-hand-man, where Cornwell was and what his plans were, because he so often was _here_ or_ there_ and _then_ here again.

Draco looked up at him, then, tilting his head slightly back and towards the right, eying his father.

Cornwell looked right back at him, staring him right in the eyes, "He's staying in my office for the night, or until the battle is over, where he can be under your watch," he whispered, and suddenly Draco understood. "No one can get to him there. _No one._ Also, though the private Quarters are safe, I'm going to ask your mother and Dickie to stay in the office with you tonight, as well."

"Why, what's wrong?" Draco whispered, panicked already.

Cornwell lowered his eyes, so it wasn't as intense, like he didn't want anyone else to look over and hear them or think something was going on, but there was definitely something going on. Instead of telling Draco just what was going on, right then, his eyes came back up, and he tapped his hand back over the map a couple of times, "If you have things to do, go do them. Be back here no later than eight; we prepare to leave at about eight-fifteen. I'll explain more later."

Draco didn't demand answers. He didn't need to anymore. He'd get them when the time was right.

Cornwell suddenly cupped the back of Draco's head, looking over him with happy eyes, and then found Draco's own eyes, once more, and then leaned in and pressed his lips to Draco's forehead. It lingered for a few moments, and then he pulled back.

Draco deadpanned at him.

Cornwell chuckled, but ever so quietly, and then kissed his cheek, his soft beard itching Draco's cheek, but Draco didn't protest, as much as he would have liked to, had he not been welcoming the affection, "I'm sorry."

"What?"

Cornwell gently stroked his cheek, "We haven't spoken very much lately. I'm sorry."

Draco was caught off guard, "I—uh—er... suppose it can be forgiven. You_ do_ have a lot of other things to worry about."

Cornwell stood up, again, but still kept his eyes on Draco's, and then he gently ran both of his hands back over Draco's hair, smoothing it down because he had ruffled it, and Draco hated that, but he appreciated the thought of Cornwell knowing that, too, so he wasn't embarrassed like he might have been at another time in such a public setting. It then occurred to him that the people at this meeting were the CoreOr—in other words, these were the members who were privy to the information that Draco was Cornwell's son, whereas the majority of other members did not know. These were the same people he'd been sharing meals with the whole summer, nearly. Had they never been officially told, there was no way they could deny the resemblance by now.

"Will you be okay if they're there with you? I'm sure Dickie will sleep, and perhaps your mother will too."

But the question really was: are you going to be okay with Harry in there?

Draco just lightly smiled, "Yeah, they won't distract me. I'm pretty good at my job."

"That you are," Cornwell replied, very fondly, and smiled. "That you are, Draco."

Draco flushed, "You're being super affectionate, you know; I'm mildly affronted."

Cornwell shrugged a bit, as if to say he wasn't sure he cared, and was sure Draco didn't, "I miss you a bit, that's all."

"I've... only been away, _and barely_, for about two days."

"Yes, but I liked how things were. It was good to... to be around you so much. I'd gotten used to it."

Draco felt his cheeks heating and his heart fizzling distantly, "Oh, like I didn't annoy you?"

"You didn't," Cornwell chuckled, then, and brushed the hair off of Draco's forehead with his cool palm, sadly, somehow. "You've never annoyed me. I see you as more of an appendage. You're like my arm, except now it's gone and I'm always searching for you. You're a... Phantom son."

Draco flushed, "You're not planning on dying tonight, are you?"

"No," Cornwell chuckled again, at Draco's serious face. "No," he sighed. "It's just... I'm your father."

Draco's lips closed together more contentedly, and he stared up at Cornwell. The way he'd said it...

Cornwell smiled, then, so barely, and thumbed at his cheek again, "I never got to be that before."

Draco couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing, hoping Cornwell could decide what was next.

He did, and confidently. He smiled, seeing Draco's reaction. He looked back at the map, then pointed at it again, "Remus will be staying behind tonight. He, of course, won't be in the office with you. He'll stay out in the main quarters and dictate who goes where, oversee everything—fill coffee, waste time, etceteras."

Remus, who had been passing, feigned a laugh, and Cornwell smiled, "Ha ha ha, you're so funny."

Cornwell ignored him, but laughed when he had walked away, and Draco did, too.

The meeting, it seemed, had ended. It must have ended before he'd gotten there.

Draco stood up, eventually, when Cornwell went back to attend to his duties of answering questions. Draco waited for him, and when he seemed ready and no one else had questions, he returned to Draco. They walked out of the room in front of everyone else and across the hall into the office, Draco first. Cornwell closed the door behind him, then led Draco towards the passageway, hand on his upper back, "He's already in there, still sleeping. I took him in earlier, and your mother will be in. Just remember, no one can get in or out unless you, Dickie, or myself are with them. I'd prefer it if none of you left until I'm sure things are safe--"

Draco turned to him, once they were in the dark, cold tunnel of the passageway, "_Seriously,_ what's going on?"

"Nothing," Cornwell said, quietly. "The more battles we wage, the more chances are that I'll come back severely injured or... This isn't easy to say, Draco, but it has been going unsaid, and it leaves me... unsettled. I'm sure you've felt the same. I see it on your face every time I show up after a battle. I want you and Dickie safe. Harry, too. _Nothing_ is more important to me than your safety."

"I know," Draco murmured, staring at him.

"You need to know things in case something _does _happen to me, and soon. You're my blood, you have the blood of Gryffindor in _you,_ and so does Dickie. So long as that remains true, which will be always, you will need to watch your back, and you will need to watch Dickie's while he's too young to look after himself, and after that, you will both need to look after each other. If something happens to me, you need to know how loved you are and by me. It is my fault I walked away—I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have let you make that decision, but I walked away for other reasons, too. However, I do feel like I just got you back, and I'm really finally adjusting to that, now, and because I am, I need you to know how much I love you, that I loved you always," he said, and held Draco's face so carefully between his two huge palms. "I love you."

Draco didn't even have the heart to let his cheeks warm or feel silly. He felt happy. He felt good, and he kind of laughed, as did his father, as they hugged a long, solid hug, and Draco said back, not so quietly, "I love you, too."

"If something happens, all of my plans, and research—everything—"

"I know, they're in the office. I know where everything is, even back at Grimmauld."

Cornwell nodded, as they pulled back, and he just held Draco by the upper arms, looking him straight in the eyes, like pacing them both, "Good boy. I know things haven't been the same lately. I don't mean to put distance between us, but I feel like it's easier for both of us if I do. I know it's not fair to you, but I worry so much about you, because the closer you are to me, the more danger you're in, both physically and emotionally. You do have to face up to the fact that you are a target," he whispered, and Draco's eyes lowered, but only to Cornwell's chest and not the floor, because Cornwell wouldn't let him look down. "It's our fault—my fault, Lucius's fault, your mother's fault. It wasn't your choice to be my son, and I should have taken you away from all of this the minute you were born. But now, things are how they are, and you're my son, and Lucius's too, and Voldemort will want to exploit that. If something happened to you, it'd kill me—kill Lucius—and you have no idea just how much more _He_ knows about how I love you than you do."

Draco squinted at him.

Cornwell cupped his cheek, "There are a lot of things about my past, and where I've been, that I can't tell you right now—maybe out of fear, maybe out of hope, maybe out of anger—I don't know. But we have to keep you safe, and Dickie, and your mother; she's a target too. You are all more targets if Voldemort finds out Lucius has been spying for us as he has. I know he knows Lucius is dancing a dangerous dance, but he doesn't know just how involved he is."

"How is he?"

Cornwell thumbed Draco's cheek again, and Draco found he rather enjoyed it even more than the first time, "After tonight, not so good, Draco," Cornwell said, quietly. "It's likely Lucius will be revealed, tonight, as a traitor to Voldemort, and on his own accord. Only Lucius and Voldemort know of tonight's locations, and if we show up, Voldemort will know Lucius has been working against him."

"What if he's lying?"

"Lucius loves you too much to lie to me; that bond goes deeper than lies and power in this world."

Draco thought he'd never heard a more dizzying and profoundly true statement in his life.

Cornwell wrapped his arm around Draco's shoulders, gently, as they walked down the tunnel, eyes on Draco and nowhere else, "He'll be safe, though. If things go as planned, he'll come here—he'll come to you, and you'll pull him in. You'll keep him in the office until it's over, and then we'll take him to a safe-house Albus has set up."

Draco turned to him, stopping him. He loved Lucius, his father, and there was no doubting that, but he could not pretend he hadn't doubts about what this entailed, "You want me to pull Lucius into Gryffindor's office? Does he know Harry will be there?"

"Of course not."

"It's a trap."

"It's not a trap."

Draco looked at him, "You think this is a good idea?"

"Hey, he's _your _father," Cornwell laughed. "Would you rather me send him somewhere less safe?"

Draco's insides screamed an answer he was shocked to hear, but then quickly muttered, "No!"

"That's what I thought," Cornwell replied. "Harry will be fine. Lucius won't be able to touch him. Literally."

"Why?"

"I took Harry in, myself. If what I believe to be true to be true, my thoughts and wishes dictate the magic of the room. Harry has up a powerful ward around him which only one of us will be able to terminate. If there's danger, the office will know. I do not know the secrets of it. I've not had the pleasure of spending as much time there as I would like, as I should have a long—very long—time ago. But I know, for reasons I can not share, that he'll be safe, perhaps even if Voldemort, himself, was in the room."

Draco was uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable, "It doesn't sound good."

"Your mother will be in the room. Lucius wouldn't dare hurt her. He loves her."

"Does he?"

"Don't be daft," Cornwell said, but he didn't look at Draco.

Draco stared at him, as they walked, and eerie silence easily prevailed.

"Do you think he'd be off put by how my mom has grown attached to Dickie?"

"No," Cornwell replied, honestly.

"Really? I think you trust him too much."

Cornwell snorted, then stopped, and Draco turned around to face him.

"I trust your father with my life, Draco, if you want the truth, which you do. I know he loves you very much, I know so, also, for reasons you couldn't even possibly wrap your mind around, right now, at seventeen years old, and I know his love for your mother is outstanding and possibly out of this world."

"Yes, but he's cheated on her their whole marriage, Cornwell!"

"He's a Malfoy, Draco! He's the bloody richest wizard in all of Europe, and he was raised that way—he has no time for playing house, he never has, and just because he has his mistresses doesn't meant he doesn't love your mother. You were raised by him, in this world—I'd think you'd know the dating rituals of the _elite_."

Draco sighed, "Their marriage was practically a business arrangement."

"In the beginning, Draco, and, regardless, just trust me. She means the world to him."

Draco twisted, physically, and then groaned, looking around the dark tunnel halls. His eyes eventually led him back to Cornwell, who still stood where he'd last been standing, "You must think I'm a fool—you_ all _must. It was obvious the very first moment I saw him, Cornwell, and if we're getting things off our chests about lies, this should be up there with the heaviest. Even Harry knew." He eyed the man's shadowed face with one heavily arched eyebrow and a nervous bite of his lip. "I was so in denial that Harry had to yell at me to stop being a thick bastard and face the truth."

Cornwell knew what this was. He just looked away.

"Your bloody awful wife did_ not_ have white-blonde hair—in fact, it was as dark as yours."

They stared at each other for a second.

Draco couldn't believe he had just brought this up, but, now that he had, they couldn't just_ leave_ it.

"I know where you're going with this."

"Yes, well... you should."

"Just because my hair is dark doesn't mean I don't have relatives who have white-blonde hair. Obviously."

"The chances would be about one in a billion that two people with dark hair and dark eyes could produce a child with hair and skin like that, like_ mine_. That skin is my mother's, just as mine is, and so is that hair, and, furthermore, so is the beauty mark he has on his cheek that I have on mine, and the timing of his birth adds up with the time my mother went to South Africa for, oh, six months?"

Cornwell started to stutter, but then he stopped.

Draco threw his hands out, "Are you seriously going to pretend you didn't have an affair with my mother when Draco_ Part Two_ exists?"

Cornwell gawked at him, "Are you out of your mind, Draco?"

Draco could not believe the answer, and he laughed as Cornwell quickly walked around him, then followed him, "No, but I think you are! Whatever issues I had with the—well—whatever—they're somewhat gone, because fuck, it wasn't your own fault that you didn't know who the other was when you had me, but you sure as hell knew when you had him!"

Cornwell turned around and just stared at Draco.

Draco took two steps back, neatly, and closed his lips together.

"This isn't the time to discuss this," was all Cornwell said, then, quietly. "Is that good enough?"

Draco found himself smiling, but just a little bit, "I wasn't trying to discuss it, because it is what it is, at least in my mind. I brought it up because of my father," Draco slowly explained, mind-boggled as to how Cornwell could be so smart and so stupid at the same time. "My father has no loyalties to you now, not since he's seen Dickie, and he sure as hell knows, now, that he is yours and my mother's, too—why she was away in Johannesburg, doing charity work, for a year—it's certainly a lot more clear, now, why she had to get out of England and why she never let him visit, nor myself. She actually went through with it—had another one of me. _With you_. So, basically, his wife, whom he did not have children with, has now had two children,_ by you_."

Cornwell chuckled, then, out of absolutely no where, and he did it affectionately, "You're so clueless."

"_I'm _clueless? Then please, PLEASE, fill me in on the big HUGE puzzle piece I'm missing."

"It's not my place to tell you, Draco," Cornwell said, then, abruptly. "But I thank you for your worry, and I'll ask you, once more, to trust me. Lucius and I may not get along, and we may have history you do not understand, but we have an understanding."

Draco's head was about ready to explode, and so was his temper, but he tried to calm himself, "You don't think you have reason to question his motives when you had an affair with his wife, and you're the father of the son he's raised, and suddenly you're back, and my attention is on you, and so is my mother's, and you don't think he wants you out of the picture?"

"Had he wanted me out of the picture, Draco, he would have seen to that a long time ago."

"When you were in _hiding_?"

Cornwell started laughing again, his hand over his eyebrow bone, like he was just trying so hard in thinking of how to explain this without saying things that weren't his "place" to say to Draco, whatever that meant. He looked up, then, and dropped his hand, and said, "We had correspondence in the time I was gone. I'm unsure if you're aware, but he did send me letters. He'd ask me how things were, and when I didn't come back, that last time, he asked me why I hadn't. I gave him my changes of address when I moved. Had he wanted me "out of the picture," he knew just where to find me... at home, at work, and my vacation homes, as well as my Traveling Owl."

"I don't understand—are you..._ brothers_ or something?"

"Your poor fucked up life," was all Cornwell could kindly say, at Draco's world, at his question, as he hugged Draco, laughing, and Draco felt a bit like he was going to cry. He was so confused. And when Cornwell pulled back, he just shook his head, as if again telling Draco that other things would have to be revealed to him before he could understand why things were as they were. If it was not his place to say, whose place was it? "This can all wait for another time."

"No, it can't," Draco told him, so quietly, so seriously, when Cornwell had found his eyes again.

"Draco," Cornwell murmured, then, because it was raw, and he could see Draco's pain and confusion, "you already have an idea, but you just have to connect it to the rest of your family's situation."

"But you're my family, too, and my mother, and Dickie—and how could you have—and why did she leave him with you? Why didn't she bring him home? I thought she hated you."

"Why would she hate me?"

"Because you left! Because of—you know—because of the... _situation_."

"Draco, I was "with" your mother, in a matter of speaking, until you were about seven."

Draco gasped. He literally gasped. His eyes flew open, wide, and he stepped back and insisted, "_What_?"

Cornwell sighed at him, "Can we please talk about this later? We have things to do."

"What the—no, no the fuck_ we can not_. You don't say something like that and then expect me to let it go!"

"Well, if you weren't being so damn thick, maybe you'd understand and start putting things together!"

"Don't call me thick, you arse! You have just further uprooted my sense of all stability. _Explain yourself_."

"Okay, _Professor Dumbledore_," Cornwell sniped back at him, and Draco was triumphant. "I'm having trouble understanding why you haven't figured it out yet."

"Figured what out!"

"It's not my place to tell you, Draco."

"Oh my God. If I already _know,_ apparently, then just_ tell_ me."

Cornwell hesitated, and then put his hand out, then let it fall, "Lucius has known about me since... well, for quite some time. He was a spy for the Order back then, even before I was involved. I know he genuinely has affections for Voldemort; they're friends, if you can believe that. But Lucius has always been torn between what is right and what is wrong, and it's not clear what is right and what is wrong. It's not as easy as who's on the "good side" and who's on the "bad side." In fact, I can guarantee you that, when Harry wakes up, having spent the past month in the company of Voldemort and company, he, too, will understand the more human side of the struggle from their end. There will be things that make sense to him, things that, maybe, he even likes more about their "side" than the one he's been fighting for his whole life. Voldemort is a monster, there is no doubt, but there are more than a few of his followers who do not wish for _his_ vision of the world, but they wish for _enough_ of it that they stay with him. Do I think your father wants to kill innocent Muggles? No, not in any part of me do I believe that. But does he want a Pureblood society? Yes, he most certainly does. When Voldemort is gone, someone else will rise, Draco, who wants a Pureblooded society. That establishment was there before Voldemort rose to power, and it will always be a part of our society, even subconsciously. The problem is how he chose to represent that chunk of our world, to terrorize people, innocent people, and to be so extreme as to show no mercy to those magic chooses whose families have no magic in them. _Lucius_ stays in Voldemort's pocket because he has a stake in that fight. But he knows, like I know, that there's common sense on our side, too. In fact, it's likely Voldemort knows your father has been struggling with these things for the last twenty years, from the very _beginning_. But he loves your father, or as much love as he is capable of. Your father is like a son to him. But if he finds out that Lucius is rising up against him, which he will, undoubtedly, tonight, there will be no going back on that."

Draco's lips fumbled for understanding, "My father's rising from within, as if to take over?"

"If something is to happen to Voldemort, it will be Lucius who takes over for him. That much has always been clear. If your father has a hand in bringing death to Voldemort, however, or, in other words, helping us find ways to bring him down, Voldemort's sympathy will wain. He will kill Lucius without a doubt."

Draco had never even thought of it like that—how could he have? He'd been too busy being a spoiled brat to think anything like that. To him, his father had always been strong and confident in his faith towards Voldemort, except for in those long-lost moments he'd watched his father, in his office, struggling openly, with his head in his hands, or staring out a window, face torn in different directions every minute or so.

"Surely you don't think a man who could love you as much as Lucius has could ever purposely want to kill innocent people? I'm sure he has—I'm not saying he's a Saint—God, no—but he's not what most people see him as. He is your father, would you not trust him to trust me enough to keep you safe? To keep him safe? On top of that, I gave him the son he could never have. I kept Dickie because the son I had was no longer mine." He stared straight at Draco.

"My father was unable to have children?" Low sperm count or something?

Cornwell shook his head in a roundabout way. He seemed to not want to be discussing this, but if there was a place to discuss it, it was here, in a hallway where only five or so men had been, "Not really, no. He just had no interest in producing an heir with your mother."

"That doesn't even make sense—if he loves her, why would he not want a child with her? He's a Malfoy, of course he'd want an heir. I'm sure my grandfather tortured him about making sure he could secure the fortune..."

"Well, I don't know what he thought, Draco. What do _you_ think, though, as your father never did produce an heir? I mean, can you? _Can_ you think?"

Draco glared at him for that, but it had been sweet, not mean, and Cornwell had a point. Draco sighed, ever the more confused, and the dark tunnel was not helping his concentration, surprisingly. Things were going over his head and he knew so, "Was he not attracted to her enough? Is that why he has mistresses? Do his mistresses have his children?"

"No... well, I wouldn't be surprised, come to think of it," Cornwell said, thoughtfully, after a moment.

"But when you found out about mum—at that party, in the summer—the Black reunion—Liverpool... she'd brought Lucius, right? They were dating before they were married, weren't they?"

"Dating? Do you think?"

Draco frowned, "You mean, they were betrothed?"

"Ding ding ding!"

Draco stood taller, "But he could have had children with other women, so why was it so important that you gave him a son—me?"

Cornwell sighed, then, like in disbelief, "Draco, come _on_."

"What, I'm trying! If I haven't "figured" out whatever all of this means, before, it's obviously for a reason."

"You're forgetting the biggest piece; you know it. You do know it, and I won't tell you."

"Stop it," Draco protested under his breath, so seriously. "I'm obviously not putting things together, but in my defense, I've learned a lot of new information in the past three or four months and I'm still adjusting. If you're sure I know, then _how about you just tell me._"

"I can't, Draco. It's not my place to tell you in a roundabout way. I know you haven't yet realized it because you haven't wanted to." Cornwell looked him squarely in the eyes. "How about you put the obvious together?"

Draco threw his hands out, then put them on his head, squeezing his eyes closed, "I just don't understand."

Cornwell struggled for a moment, and then asked, in a hushed voice, "Do you remember when I brought you your birthday letter this year?"

Hands still on his head, fingers in his hair, Draco sighed hopelessly, "Yes."

"And I told Harry I was your father?"

"Yes, I do remember that," Draco kind of laughed at the expression that'd been on Judas's face. Now, if only he would have been able to see Potter's horror and amusement instead...

"Do you remember how you explained it?"

"No, I just..."

Draco looked at Cornwell.

Cornwell held his hand up and squinted one eye, like he was hoping Draco was realizing, at long last.

Draco blinked at him, then, out of total confusion, "I—but I thought—oh..."

"Now that you know, it's not my place to discuss it with you, so—on to our work, okay?"

Draco just trailed him down the tunnel, lips parted in stunned confusion, feeling only... slightly foolish.

Lucius and his mother really had been betrothed, and they hadn't produced an heir because...

But what about his other mistresses? Had they been covers, too? They'd never been_ hidden_, actually.

"Oh," Draco just muttered, hands over his face. "My whole life is a lie."

"It's not."

"But... but everything—everything I thought," Draco ignored him, his voice accusatory. "Everything I thought... is _wrong_."

Cornwell turned to him and stopped him, pulled his hands from his face, and found Draco's eyes with a bit of a game of trying to catch them, and when Draco let him, the lock stayed, "I'm sorry. One, for how much we've hurt you. Two, for how it has all come out in such a quick period of time. Apologies aside, none of this change the important things—we all loved you, then, and we all love you now."

"Yes, I know," Draco dismissed the point, but not ungrateful for the words. "Does he have a—does—does he have—did he ever have a..."

"Yes, of course, and for a long time. You remember him, he was always around. He was killed."

"What? Oh, wait... wait, was it—it was! It was—_Daniel_? Was it Daniel? Oh, wow. _Wow_."

Cornwell smiled, so softly, even at Draco's epiphany, "Daniel," he confirmed. "Not long after I left, actually. He was a Death Eater, too."

"Was that why Lucius was so angry, then, and why he took it so hard? Why he could never sleep? This makes so much more sense, I can't even tell you..." Draco was piecing together information about his father that had always seemed to make Lucius distant, why he had been so obsessed with the Death Eater organization the last three years. It was the opposite now. When he had time to sit down and work all of the things he'd learned this summer out, well... well, hopefully he would live long enough to see that torturous and accepting period of time come to pass, where things could be sorted in more friendly compartments in his mind.

"Yes. He... he took it very hard."

"And was that why he was so angry with you, because you're _you_, and they were up against you and the Order?"

"It is likely, and it was irrational, but he apologized, long after I had left here, long after that particular battle. We've made our peace."

"So why'd you go, then, if you loved my mother, and my father wasn't even an issue?"

"Because politics are involved and it was the Malfoys, Draco. I'm a Black, and not one of good social standing. We are not powerful like the Malfoys. And, anyway, I have a great respect for Lucius. He wanted to start anew with your mother, and you, and you chose him. I made my peace with that, as well."

"But I—I didn't choose him over you, Cornwell."

"It's all in the _past_, Draco," Cornwell whispered, then, and took his face, once more, but more strongly.

"No, no, it's _really_ not," Draco told him, hands wrapping around his father's wrists. "You loved my mother, and she loved you."

"What once was, Draco, yes, but no longer. Once upon a time," he said, quietly.

"And then once like two years ago. Dickie?"

"Yes, but that wasn't planned. I was desperate, and she was lonely. I'm not saying your parents haven't had—I mean—relations—just not ever had children. After Daniel died, well, I'm sure you know, now, why all that has mattered to Lucius for the past three years or so has been trying to get closure. He's obsessed with bringing Voldemort down, Draco."

Draco was speechless for a long time, "How come no one ever told me? I never—I don't—I can't even process everything about—wait, and was that why your wife left?"

"No, she'd already left me by then."

"So, were you just going to spend your whole life in some tiny shack of a cabin with Dickie, and I never would have known? You'd have let my father obsess over Voldemort all by himself knowing you and Harry were the only ones who could do the damage?"

"No, because _this_ was planned. You and I have not had contact, Draco, but Lucius and I have never stopped corresponding—it wasn't particularly friendly, but we had an understanding. Who do you think it was who saw to Lucius's safety? Dumbledore?" And the man laughed in the name of Albus Dumbledore like not even Draco had seen Lucius do. "_No._ Dumbledore knows nothing of Lucius's intentions toward Voldemort, and he wouldn't believe them in the first place. What gets to Dumbledore eventually gets back to Voldemort. Wise people know this; wise people are careful with what they say around him. Lucius has never spoken to me of his plans, has never even confirmed his ways have split from Voldemort's, but he knows I know, and that's why we'll work on each other's behalf for the time being. We'll keep each other safe, tell each other what we know. He's kept us on our toes and alerted us. We would have lost many Order members in surprise attacks..."

"Yes, yes, I know. What was "planned," though?"

"_This_, now, returning this year, now that you and Harry are seventeen, now that Harry can fight, and so can you, and because Lucius and I have been waiting for Voldemort to get strong enough to make his move," Cornwell whispered, and he stared into Draco's eyes, so close. "Like I've told you over and over, Draco, this reaches far beyond the Here and Now. Things have been planned and in the works for years. Your father is not my enemy, and I am not his. The friend of my enemy, however, is _not_ my friend, and therefore Lucius and I will remain on different sides always. He wishes for a Pureblood society. I wish for a society where it does not matter what blood it is you have, as long as someone saw fit, beyond our realm of knowledge or understanding, to put magic in your veins. But when the fight is over, it is not Lucius and I who will be enemies—perhaps even friends, then, but it will rather be Harry's fight, should he so choose to enter into it. The threat is gone only if Lucius is the one to take over that circle when Voldemort leaves, because he is a smart man, a clever man, a _just_ man. If it should be one of the other insane clansmen, or another unrelated madman down the line, then there will be big, _big_ trouble. Tonight is important for both sides of this war, Draco. Tonight, the war kind of centers around your father. He will burn his bridges tonight. Things will not be any safer for you, for him, for your mother or Dickie. It is our fault that you're in so much danger in the first place, but let's face it, you love the attention."

"Basically," Draco whispered, then, and hit his father with a smirk that seemed to startle him so much it hurt, "I'm your son, and Lucius's son, and either way, I'm in danger, because someone will always be after me. And Dickie. And my mother."

"Yes."

Draco's lips parted, exasperated at all of the information that had just been flooded to him, mostly because he'd always tried to block it out, "I think I'm ready now."

Cornwell kissed Draco's cheek for a long time, and then gently took his hands and led him down the tunnel, carefully, and a couple of minutes later, spoke the last words in the tunnel, "Don't die, all right?"

Draco just looked at him and laughed.

Draco went back to his dorm and changed out of his school robes, leaving on the garments below it. He found he was tired, but somehow he had come to work through his drowse, always, when the Order needed him. He escaped out of the Common Room around seven forty-five and made his way across the grounds, ducking low behind bushes when he saw students randomly passing, walking back from the lake. He breathed in the fresh air deeply, listening to the toads croak in the distance and the low moans of things emitting from the forest from some far proximity. It was peaceful enough, but he wasn't sure whether the tension he was feeling was legitimately in the air or just something he was projecting, nervous about the possibility of battle, that night, and the damage it might produce on both sides. He had never quite worried like this. He was afraid he was going to lose those he was closest to. He felt sick as he took the last steps into the order, praying to some mystical force, whom he hoped had a favorable plan in mind, that he not lose Cornwell or Lucius, both of whom were always in danger, but especially tonight, and especially Lucius.

The order was quiet when he entered, and not because it was empty. They were all sitting around, silently, in the main room, on chairs and sitting on desks, some playing idly with stationary supplies, and listening to a quiet report coming back to them. It sounded like Ron and Charlie Weasley were on the scene, hiding behind something, or spying from a distance. They were scoping out where they were and reporting all of the things they saw—approximated distances from one clearing to another, a couple of pathways—the one on the left full of tree roots—and whilst they spoke out the scene as they saw it, Remus drew a visual map, in the air, for all of them, with his wand. This map was on their papers, he saw, as he eyed his. He gave a nod of thanks to Tonks who nodded back at him.

It was going to be a long night, it seemed.

A couple of minutes later, Ron and Charlie both popped back in to the Order's Headquarters, via a modified and illegal hack that had been crafted up with the help of Ministry insiders. It was a good thing, Draco thought, that the Acting Minister of Magic was such a clueless dope and really had no idea how to run the Ministry, probably trusted anyone who worked for him. Luckily, one of the Order's higher-ups was Lead In Charge of Spell Modification and Relocation, and another Head of Portkeys, and so, between the two of them, they made things happen.

The minutes before going on official battle duty were mostly quiet, reflective. One might have thought they were chaotic, but they weren't. They needed this time to concentrate, to get their heads on straight. In battle, especially because the Order wasn't very large, every member counted and relied on every other member to see to his or her safety. Draco had been in battle only a couple of times, but even then he had seen how they all relied on each other, had each other's backs. It was nothing like how he had seen the Death Eaters fight. Sure, the Death Eaters had larger numbers and typically darker spells and less moral conscience not to use them, but they didn't fight for the kind of reasons the members of the Order did. Sometimes it seemed like they even forgot what they were fighting for, because it was just so ingrained in who they were, and deep down, Draco felt that truly seeping into his own conscious. There was something innately right about what they were fighting for, what they were defending. Still, though, Draco wasn't entirely sold on the idea that their happy-go-lucky joyful ideal world was even remotely realistic, but he didn't tell them so. He knew they just wanted to be rid of Voldemort, his killing of Muggles, innocent ones, and Draco sided with them on wanting to end that, and soon.

He knew in his heart, though, that there would always be those Purebloods who wouldn't want to be bothered with Muggles and Muggleborns. They did taint the pool of magic, much as it didn't seem to matter to people in the Order. Draco didn't want to see innocent people hurt, but he did feel that, on some level, there was also something threatening the sanctity and pureness of the magic. Perhaps it had been his upbringing, perhaps he would never shake off those deep feelings, but he knew there were other ways to deal with this, and that was for Purebloods who disagreed to _just_ disagree, mate with each other, and keep their opinions to themselves, and not take it out on innocent bystanders.

He could not deny that it was not his own prerogative to decide who was blessed with magic. Someone else did that, and because of this, he knew that he had no right to say someone else was tainting magic. Someone saw to it that some muggleborns WERE born with magic in their veins, and so he figured that was for a reason. However, there was absolutely no doubt that the strength of magic would weaken, as it had been weakening by decade. The power wizards had once had, like Merlin, or Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor—all of the—it was just no longer as pure as it had once been. Centuries ago, at the tender age of 17, wizards would have been able to cast unbelievable spells with unbelievable power, but no longer. Perhaps it was a good thing. For now. Draco just worried about the century following theirs, when the power, now, was already dwindling.

In the way that it seemed like the sun had been brighter when he was a child, the days longer, and when time hadn't seemed to exist, magic had seemed, even then, so much more, well, _magical_. Perhaps it was nostalgia, or perhaps it wasn't. For these thoughts, Draco felt he couldn't fully commit himself to the order, because he did worry about magic. He had a lot invested in it—well, he supposed everyone did. This had been his family's life, protecting magic, centuries before he'd been born, and on both sides of his family, Malfoys and Blacks. He could not turn his back on that, the thought of how magic had been tainted. Maybe this was a way of weening out magic? Making it less powerful, decade by decade, birth by birth, until it fizzled out? The thought had crossed more than his mind.

Draco didn't particularly feel guilty. He just knew it was always something he was going to struggle with, at least for the immediate future or the next ten years. It was a trying time to be wizards, obviously, especially young ones who were still working out the world, what they wanted out of it, and what they wanted to give it. It was strange for Draco, however, because he was torn in two very opposite directions. It wasn't just that he had one father on one side, and one on the other, but that both of them were the very leads of the causes they were fighting for. Their views were so extremely different—hell, Cornwell had been raised a Muggle, had never even known he was a Wizard until he'd been about Draco's age, and, on the other hand, Lucius had been raised amongst men and women who'd been watching their family's magic being drained.

Draco found he more identified with Lucius, because the thought of magic no longer existing for his great-grand-children made him sick. Magic was a life, it was a sense of being. It was a whole different world, one that both the Blacks and the Malfoys had been around to help create in the beginning, their ancestors, and seeing its demise was more than a tad unsettling. If Draco expressed this to anyone, they would tell him that the pool of magic was not being drained, that it was evening out, that it was better that they didn't have as much unbridled power as they might once have had. They'd say that magic wasn't going anywhere, but he knew it was. He just felt it in his insides. Now, did he think that Muggleborns needed to be hurt or killed over this? No. They _were_ magical. And, quite frankly, Draco had nothing specifically against Muggles, either. He hoped this was closer to how Lucius felt, that he knew he had no right to kill innocent people, and that, if he took over for the Bigoted Pureblood Society, he'd at least do it and come from a place that was logical, that went back to the roots of making sure Purebloods married Purebloods to maintain their family's magical line instead of pointlessly killing innocent other witches and wizards just because they _weren't _Purebloods.

Draco sighed, coming out of his trance on his map in order to hear a few closing words coming from Cornwell, "... and then we'll see what we can do. Ready?"

"Ready," everyone responded in unison, even Draco, because he was. He was ready.

Draco looked at Cornwell from across the room before he left. Cornwell studied him back, perhaps noticing Draco's tight shoulders, the way even Draco knew he was sitting stiffly, thinking intently about where his thoughts had been, where his loyalties resided. He knew he belonged in this fight, fighting for just the decency and life of innocent people, but he wasn't sure his heart was in it. But Cornwell was, and Harry was, and they were invested in it more than anyone else. Their lives had both been predetermined to take place in this fight, one via prophecy and one via genetics.

Draco slid off of the desk he'd been sitting on, and he just up his hand, the one with his map and papers in it, as if to wave goodbye to Cornwell. Cornwell just gave him a slight nod of his head, as if he was unsure that he wanted to go to battle knowing that something so severely seemed wrong with Draco, but Draco figured that had never mattered before, and, regardless of what his intentions and deep-seated loyalties were, he had a job to do, one that he couldn't fuck up, and so he excused himself and made his way behind secret passages and down blood-tied hallways that lit for him as he walked.

When he entered Cornwell's office, all was quiet. The fireplace was already roaring rapidly, and on the surprisingly chilly September night, it felt good, kind of lukewarm. He saw, at once, across from the table and chair he'd sat at the night before, doing his job, the long dark-brown and wooden couch that had been in the Private Quarters, and on it, still asleep and oblivious to the world, was one Harry Potter. The presence immediately had Draco's heart pounding but he pushed through it in order to get closer. He was going to be staring at Potter all night, most likely, when he wasn't doing his job or helping someone. Was it healthy for him to stare at Potter while he just seemed to lifelessly lay there, willing him to wake? No, likely not.

Draco put his papers down on the table, and then turned and looked over at his mother and Dickie, who were sitting on one of two high-backed grand chairs, and she was reading to him as he looked at the pictures, half asleep in her arms. All of these feelings came flinging at Draco when he realized, for the first time, what this meant—that she was holding her son, that she had been doing so since the moment he'd shown up. It was no wonder, now, why she seemed to love him so much, when he was her own. But, even if he had not been, Draco knew she might have loved him as such. Dickie spent so much time with her, and vice versa. He seemed to know exactly who she was, perhaps had known all along, or perhaps had no idea, but he seemed content, and happy, and Draco could almost not tell where her pale skin met Dickie's.

Draco could not help the small, indignant snort that left his nose, unbeknown to them, "Hi."

Narcissa smiled at him, having been waiting for him, it seemed, "Hello, darling."

Draco walked over, slowly, because he had a bit of time to kill before he opened the files, "What are you reading, there?" He asked, as he pecked a kiss to her cheek and then high-fived Dickie, who reached his hands up for Draco, for Draco to take him. Draco did, just because he had no reason not to, lifting Dickie right out of his mother's arms, and she just smiled at the both of them. God, this was weird. She had no idea that he really knew, and it was just... so eye-opening for him. He looked at Dickie, now, with a more official sense of brotherhood.

Narcissa closed the book, in her lap, and held it up, "A picture book about the different kinds of potions ingredients. If he's anything like you, I thought he'd enjoy it. He seems to."

Draco's eyes lit up as he eyed the book, "Didn't you used to read that to me?"

"Sure did," Narcissa laughed, fondly, eying the worn book as her fingertips traced over the faded gold lettering. "Sure did."

Draco grinned to himself, then at Dickie, who was just happily gazing at him, "Are you tired?"

"No," Dickie protested through a yawn, his little hands both covering his mouth.

Draco snorted at the snooty, precious, innocent answer that had hit him back, "Yeah, _okay_."

Dickie rested his head down on Draco's shoulder, so Draco bounced him a bit.

"So, what do you need from us? I assume you'd like mostly silence."

"Well, that would help," Draco admitted to his mother, as she stood. "There is a bed and a crib just behind the door, there." He motioned his head over to a door that stuck out between two shelves of books. It was a small room, but a decadent room. Cornwell sometimes got a couple of minutes of shut-eye in there. This place seemed to sooth him more than any other place did, and even Draco somehow sort of felt... _better._.. when he was here.

Narcissa's eyebrows rose, "A crib?"

"Most likely. Dickie has Gryffindor blood; I'm sure his presence is sensed."

"Enough for a crib to pop up, really?" She seemed very impressed. "These quarters never cease to surprise me."

"Let's hope it's only ever good surprises," Draco laughed, as he handed Dickie back over to her. "Sleep well."

"We'll be just in there if you need anything. Good luck, sweetheart." She cupped his cheek.

Draco sighed, "Why do you both keep doing this?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I'm starting to fear for my life."

She didn't seem surprised, "We just love you and you have a face for affection, that's all."

"_A face for affection_? Merlin," Draco snorted, and she chuckled at his horror. "Goodnight."

Draco made sure they were all settled before he let her close the door so they could rest. Dickie was already half-asleep in his crib when his mother had shooed him out and told him it was almost eight, and it was. He took his seat, again, but didn't immediately write the script to open his files, eying the clock. He had a couple of minutes to kill, so he sat back in the chair and watched the light from the fireplace cast delightfully dancing shadows over Potter's limp body and his covers. It was warm in front of the fireplace, so Draco got up and took one of the blankets off from over him, one of the heavier ones, and threw it over the back of the couch. He figured that if Potter was perfectly conscious, just without being conscious, and was hot... well, there could be nothing worse except for being unconscious in the first place. And so Draco sighed with contempt before he signed in his scripts.

Draco saw, at eight o'clock on the dot, on his map, that everyone was where they were supposed to be.

Nothing happened for at least fifteen minutes. It seemed, in this time, that everyone was just getting a sense of what was going on on the scene. Draco watched their dots move around his maps. The further apart they spread, the more the map zoomed out and he could zoom in on specific people if he needed to. It was strange, he thought, that there didn't seem to be an attack thus far, so, most likely, it was just a propaganda rally and there was no immediate danger. He wasn't sure that they were going to start a battle, nor was the Order. If anything, they'd grab Lucius and maybe a couple of guilty parties to turn over to the Acting Minister to keep the public in high-spirits, or as much as they could manage to be, about putting more Death Eaters to trial.

Draco twirled his quill between his fingertips as he watched Harry. His eyes went back and forth between Potter and the map, his right leg crossed over his left, resting comfortably in the over-sized, high-backed chair. He didn't find it as hard to concentrate as he would have thought. The thing was, there was nothing he could do for Harry, now, to bring him back, except do what he could to try to help heal him, but what that entertained was not yet known to him, perhaps not known to anyone. The good news was that he still had a heart-beat, and that, for however long he had opened his eyes, for Cornwell, he had been conscious, and_ there. That_ was, of course, a wonderful sign, one that delivered those who would see to his health and recovery, hope.

"Draco," spoke up, and Draco looked over at the fireplace to see Remus. "We're all coming back."

"That's good news, but why?"

"We've gotten Lucius safely out, and now that they think we've kidnapped him, they'll react. We need new strategy and a regroup."

"Right," Draco said, in a matter-of-fact way, and as Remus disappeared from before him, the dots on his map started to reappear on the list of those who were "in" the Order and available to fight. When everyone was back, including Cornwell, Draco just sat back instead of going out to see what was going on. He was mostly relieved because Lucius's name appeared on the list. This was just one more lucky night, he thought, and now that Voldemort was likely to be suspicious about Lucius's absence, the fights would be more personal. More people would get injured, hurt.

Draco picked up the map, then, about to close out his script for the night, but right as the first words left his mouth, something occurred to him. He pulled the map closer to his eyes, looking at Lucius's dot. It was larger than the others, sort of misshapen. What did this mean? There hadn't been any special dots marked on the map, non for enemies or anything of the sort, that Draco knew. Cornwell and Lucius seemed to be in his Order office, and no one else. As he watched the dot closely, it separated. Oh, shit. He jumped up and scribbled down on a piece of paper

_You've been compromised. Someone came with Lucius. He's by the__ mirror._

He pressed his wand to the paper and it disappeared, no doubt reappearing in Cornwell's hands a second later. It was the fastest way he would have been able to do or say anything. He threw about ten spells in front of the fireplace to close it all off, and then he was out of the office and running down the hallways, the lamps igniting with each one he passed, once more. He kept glancing down at the dot—it was undeniable, this had been planned. Order members were now all over the place, no longer just in headquarters. He saw some running through the school, and when he looked at Cornwell's office, he saw that it was still three people—Cornwell, Lucius, and someone else. If this wasn't a big deal, he wouldn't have heard panicked yelling, would he have?

Draco ran through the tunnels until he found the passageway into the Order's main room. There were four people there, two Weasleys—one being Ron—and Tonks and Moody. Tonks went to say something to him, as soon as she saw him, all of their wands raised at him as he came through the passageway. They didn't lower their wands but rather turned them away and towards the office doors as Draco held up his map, as if to say he knew that something was wrong.

"Someone came with Lucius."

"Impossible, I didn't see anyone with him," Moody growled with a snarl at Draco.

Draco held up the map, "The map doesn't lie," he whispered back. "It doesn't say who it is, which means the person is unidentifiable."

"Do you think it's..."

"No," Moody replied to Tonks, "Voldemort wouldn't attempt Cornwell here. He's a coward but not a fool."

Draco moved back into the passageway before they could say anything and let it close behind him. He sealed it off with a spell, so they couldn't come after him, and he just ran, keeping the map in his hands. There was only one way he could get into that room. Perhaps he should have taken someone with him, and perhaps not. But he needed to be rational, here, and the best way he could do that was if he was alone. He was be most useful to whatever the situation was that way. He found his way to the office passageway and pushed the bookcase gently from the opening so he could hear what was being said. He pushed it only about a forth of an inch open, but it was plenty enough to hear what was going on.

"When Lucius said you were back, I almost didn't believe him."

Draco had no idea who this person was; he'd never heard his voice before. It was low and terse.

"He never exactly _went_ anywhere," Lucius replied, after a tense silence. "He was in hiding."

"Yes, thank-you for the insight, Malfoy," the man replied snidely, and Draco's eyebrow hooked up. "My, my, won't the Dark Lord be pleased when he hears you've been cohorting with Cornwell Black all of these years. I squirm to think of what'll be done to you. Justification for your years of getting away with everything without any punishment. I dare say that'll be remedied and _then_ some."

"And just how do you suppose," Lucius asked, then, suddenly, "you're going to get out of here? With us, no less?"

"Why, calling in reinforcements, I suppose. Would you like to call them or shall I?"

"No one can Apparate in," Lucius told him, and Draco could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Who said anything about Apparting?" The man questioned, and seemed very, very amused. Too amused. Too pleased. With himself. Draco saw, in the mirror, the man open his coat and pull out a handful of black marbles. He tossed them into the air, and instead of falling to the ground, they floated. Genius, Draco praised, because he knew exactly what had been done—he'd heard about them working on this, years before, but his father had said it would never be possible. Well, someone had figured it out.

Draco saw, too, that the man was pocketing two wands—Lucius's and Cornwell's—_shit_.

Cornwell finally spoke, "Do you really think there aren't wards up that will kill them as soon as they materialize?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Yes, because you're not a Death Eater," Cornwell told him, as if he were a very dumb child, tapping on his own forearm with his index fingertip to signify his lack of the Dark Mark. "Go on, try it. I will celebrate the embarrassment Voldemort will likely experience when he reacts to the news that his very best Death Eaters having been bested by Dumbledore's Wards _again_." Draco knew he was bluffing, but whoever this other man was, he did not, clearly. He eyed Cornwell strangely, and Draco's heart pounded. He had to do something. They were wandless, and now that he noticed, seemed slightly haggard, as if there had been a bit of a physical fight before all of this had transpired and had arrived at the passageway.

"You're lying," the man told Cornwell, frankly, as if he was absolutely positive about it.

"You never did have a good Poker face," Lucius muttered under his breath at Cornwell, but in a conversational way that, in the face of possible injury or death, in front of this man, almost made Draco start to laugh. He even turned to look at Cornwell, arms crossed over his chest, to tell him so. They were amusing, Draco suddenly realized, when Cornwell just returned a vaguely unamused glare. They were all too familiar in a way that he was quite acquainted with. They were like he and Potter in sixth year: kind of enemies but kind of kindred spirits, too. Just like Draco wouldn't have wanted to be stuck in the presence of psychopathic madman with anyone but Harry, and probably vice versa, it seemed to be somewhat the same for Lucius and Cornwell.

"So, what do I do now? I've got your wands and Death Eaters ready to take you. Any last words?"

"That's a little dramatic," Lucius said all of the sudden, and then he looked at Cornwell. "Isn't it?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Cornwell replied, conversationally, with a sudden smile, as if they weren't being threatened within inches of their lives. "Are you ready to face the _epic _and _violent_ wrath of Voldemort, Lucius?" Cornwell asked, and put his hands up in the air like he was preparing himself, pulling a face, and Lucius took on the same mocking tone, at once, and did a little movement with his head, like he wasn't at all intimidated, amused at the idea rather than terrified.

"Oooh, I don't know, Cornwell," Lucius replied, his hands up by his face, shaking from side to side in a jazz-hands sort of way, every bit theatrical. "Are your legs just _shaking_ with fright? Mine sure are."

"Smart asses," the man grunted. "That always was your problem, Lucius. It won't get you out of trouble this time."

"Won't it?" Lucius asked, and then dropped his arms from over his chest. "In all seriousness, how do you want to do this? Do you want to take us right here or would you rather take us to him?"

"I have my orders, none of which I need to discuss with you."

"Oh, _teste_," Cornwell cooed with delight, under his breath. "I think you have a foe, Lucius."

"Well he damn sure never had any friends," the man barked at Cornwell, pulling his wand out.

Cornwell chuckled, "You're such a fool!" Draco was enthralled by this exclamation and then mind-blown by the one that followed it. "Malfoys don't have friends. They have allies in high places. Why do you think you were sent to get Lucius? These," Cornwell said, and motioned to the small black marbles in the air, "are probably his weakest Death Eaters, likely the youngest ones he has. He sent them in here to get killed, as did he send you. You probably already know this, as well, but wouldn't want to admit it, and who would?"

"Would you like to see just whom he sent?"

"Yes," Cornwell replied, and Lucius went to protest otherwise. "Show us our _equal_ opponents."

The man lifted his wand, and just as he went to flick his wrist, Cornwell grabbed a bronze platform that he kept on his desk to protect the wood surfaces. He lifted it with both hands and then slammed it into the side of the formation of marbles and into the closest wall, as hard as he could. The marbles hit the wall at unbelievable velocity, and, then, the most amazing thing happened. Bodies just unfolded from the marbles, just completely broke loose, and every single one remained unconscious on the floor.

Cornwell turned and looked at the man, who Lucius had pinned to the desk. He was now holding three wands. He tossed Cornwell's to him, took his own, and then pocketed the other. Ever grateful, Cornwell muttered a wrist-binding spell, and then Lucius cast a body-bind on him, then everyone else. When the room was all silent, Cornwell turned and looked in the mirror, directly at Draco, "You can come out, Draco."

Draco pushed open the study door. He had been ready to help if he had been needed, but he had trusted in Lucius and Cornwell, as Cornwell had asked of him. He had let them handle it, for they were far wiser than he was, and more skilled, and more instinctual. They worked well as a team, Draco had to admit, and he had liked watching them from that tiny crack, in the mirror's reflection. He walked around and then looked at the whole scene before him. There were six people on the floor in body-binds, lined up by the door, completely unconscious.

"Are they dead?" Draco asked, first, as he approached Lucius, who extended his hand out to Draco's form, and, somehow, Draco ended up in an embrace with him. It was nice, and warm, and he smelled like his father, the one he had known in the studies, and not the one who was obsessed with the Death Eaters, now which had a new spin on it. Draco hugged back, because he had every reason to do so, and then was let go.

"One of them is," Cornwell replied, as he examined one closest to the door. "Completely dead."

"Unbelievably idiotic," Lucius spat, then, as he walked over to Cornwell and looked down at the man. "To bring in orbs like that, knowing that they could be killed with a simple smash against a hard surface. It's the most irresponsible plan I've ever heard. I'll tell you, the ranks over there are going to shit. You'd think it was Rita Skeeter heading up the intelligence."

Cornwell laughed, then, as Lucius examined their bodies, and backed up to where Draco was. He smiled at Draco, so softly, like to tell him it was okay, that this was really what it was like between he and Lucius, that things were okay. He smiled as if to say, "see, we're okay, just different." It was true, they did seem okay. Not friends, really, but allies, and suddenly Cornwell's words about Malfoys and allies seemed even more profound than when he'd first heard it. For Cornwell to have said that meant he very well knew just what it meant to be a Malfoy.

"I wouldn't put anything past Rita Skeeter, come to think of it," Draco said, oh so seriously.

Cornwell ruffled his hair, "Ah, like fathers, like son."

Draco was mortified.

But Lucius turned, at Cornwell's statement, and just laughed with him, so genuinely. He always had gotten enormous joy out of Draco's humiliation. "Indeed."

"Fuck my life," Draco simply told them, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"No," Lucius told him, still as airily aristocratic as ever, but way more human, and relaxed, "it's a good life. You have to look at all of your idiosyncratic as gifts, for no other child has ever been raised to be more all-encompassing than you have been. You have my ideals, and everything else is Cornwell's—s'all right, a good combination if there ever was one."

Draco shook his head at them, because they just seemed so amused with themselves and complimentary of each other just to one-up the other, "Look, before this turns into some weird conversation—because there have already been way too many of those lately—can we just take care of this mess?"

"Already on it," said Remus, as he came through the door, with eight other members behind him.

"Now," Cornwell said, and draped a comfortable arm over Lucius's shoulder, "let's get you someplace safe, shall we?"

Lucius scowled at him but didn't say a word.

Draco squinted at them, "Where_ is _that, exactly?"

"Ah, Draco, no one can know that."

"No one but you?" Draco asked Cornwell, and Lucius nodded instead. "Will I be able to see you?"

"Yes, when things are more settled and safe," Lucius told him, his voice gentle. "We will have time to talk about... many things."

Draco felt as though ten pounds had just been dropped from his chest area alone, "_Really_?"

"Yes," Lucius told him, as he led Draco towards the door, his hand on Draco's upper back. "We will talk."

"About Daniel, as well?"

Lucius, for a moment, was stunned, but after sharing a look with his son, gave a small nod. First, they hugged, and it lasted about a minute, for comfort, for assurance that the other was alive, and okay, and things would be better, when there'd be time to apologize, time to explain, and then Lucius gave a prompt nod. "Yes, that'd be okay."

Draco smiled, then, mostly to himself, and said goodbye to Lucius before Arthur Weasley took over.

Cornwell and Draco walked together out of the office, and Cornwell seemed to be putting off a vibe that he didn't quite want to be bothered by anyone right then. When they were out by all of the scattered and cluttered desks, Cornwell turned to him and grasped him by the shoulder, "I'd like it if you stayed in the Quarters tonight."

Draco turned around, then, because of the grasp, and stared into the dark eyes, seeing something in them that was so warm, that made his inner eleven year old run around screaming with joy he'd never have admitted to when he was eleven, but Cornwell knew otherwise, "Why is that?"

Cornwell shrugged a bit, and then moved his hand so it went to Draco's other should, leaving his arm draped over both, "For my own peace of mind, that's all. We miss seeing you at breakfast, too. All of us."

"I'm supposed to stay up at the castle and "_maintain a sense of normalcy,_" though."

"I think normalcy, for you, after this summer, will come more to benefit you if you see us more often."

Draco looked down at his shoes, thoughtfully, then back up to Cornwell, "Okay, if you insist. I'll arrange it so that I can stay."

"That was like pulling teeth, huh?" Cornwell chuckled, as they walked down the hallway.

Draco felt his cheeks flush, "I like being home, that's all."

"And home is us?"

"Yeah," Draco found himself saying. "Home isn't a place anymore. Look at all of the families here. We all call _this _home for now, because we have our families here, and we're lucky. So, I guess... yes, home is where you, mum, and Dickie are, and Harry, too."

"And Lucius."

"And Lucius, but he won't be here tonight, will he?"

"No, for awhile he'll be in hiding, but I'm sure we can arrange you to visit him, perhaps over Holiday."

"That's a really long time from now."

Cornwell seemed to realize this, too, and said, as he squeezed Draco's shoulders, "We'll figure something out." And he sounded like he meant it.

"Speaking of," Draco said, knowing they were heading to Gryffindor's office to collect Narcissa, Dickie, and Harry, and assure them that everything was all right, "when we get back to the Quarters, can _we_ talk for a little while? I know you'll be needing some sleep, but if I could just... snag a few minutes?"

"Sure, what about?"

"Harry."

"Of course," Cornwell assured him, looking at him as they walked together. "I surmised as much. This will be our next battle, our next... challenge."

"I had figured as much, as well. This means we start all over again, doesn't it?"

"So long as Harry is as he is, yes. And if..." Cornwell cleared his throat. "If we do manage to heal him, or he comes to consciousness, he will need rehabilitation. His body has been lying still for the past three, four months, and he'll have to readjusted to it, and his body will have to naturally come back from this. He is, for all intensive purposes, nearly dead. That's the truth of the matter, Draco, and we all need to face, individually, the possibility of him not pulling through this."

It was different hearing it coming out of Cornwell's mouth. It affirmed the direness of the situation.

"Well, then, what are we going to do to help heal him? What can we do? Who can we even trust?"

"Just let us worry about that," Cornwell said to him. "But if you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them."

"I just..." Draco sighed heavily. "Do you think someone should be stretching his muscles out?"

"Quite. As a matter of fact, that was one of my first concerns. That'll be something I'll be tending to, first thing tomorrow morning. Connor Figg, Arabella's nephew, is a doctor of physical therapy. He's a squib, also. He's a prime candidate to ask for help. He's well versed in magic, of course, and has won numerous awards for his work. Arabella trusts him completely, even more-so than some of our Order members who are actual medi-wizards. We have to keep Harry's presence really just to us, the Core-Or. Too many people know already."

"The Weasleys," Draco offered.

"No, Arthur and Molly—even Ron—should have always known. I'm more concerned about the youngest girl knowing—she shouldn't have been told. A mistake, I'm sure, Molly Weasley regrets by now."

"You think she'll tell someone?"

"Not necessarily, but she's not as invested in this as we are. Her attempts to help may backfire for all of us." He paused. "There's something off about her. I don't trust her intentions to be coming from a place of teamwork."

"Someone should talk to her, then."

"Yes, but who would she listen to?"

"Ron, perhaps," Draco suggested. "He could easily shut her down, pull the best-friend card. It would trump whatever card she _thinks_ she has." If it had come out a little too forcefully, Cornwell... had noticed, because he cast one small glance at Draco, with the tiniest raise of his eyebrow, before disregarding the infliction from Draco's voice.

Cornwell was thoughtful only for a few seconds, and then he looked at Draco, once more, "Could you talk to Ron about it, see what he thinks? Gather some ideas from him? I think you'd get the most out of him."

Although they were not on the best terms, Draco had high hopes that a conversation about Potter's well-being would be held with high-regard. Ron knew Draco wanted the best for Potter's safety, now, and so he couldn't think Draco was up to anything but what he insisted he was. The only person who could closely watch Ginny, who was trusted enough to know about Harry, was Ron. Perhaps he already was watching her? Ron seemed to have a keen paranoia about everyone around him, including those closest to him. A side-effect of war efforts, no doubt, "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."

When they entered the office, they both stopped. There was no Harry Potter on the couch.

Cornwell went for the bedroom door, immediately, asking Harry's name.

Draco didn't know what to do, but, for some reason, he turned to his left and looked in the corner.

Harry was sitting there, in a brown chair, between two bookshelves, pale, exhausted, and slumped over.

Draco's lips parted, "Harry?"

"He's not in the..." Cornwell began, coming out of the room with Narcissa, but his voice trailed off when his eyes landed on the slumped figure.

Harry raised a bony hand to his throat, though it seemed to take a lot of effort, and croaked in the hoarsest, most painful voice anyone in the room had ever heard, "Something to drink, please?"


End file.
